


Black Lion

by Johnnyfer



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood, Fluff, Gen, No Bashing, Reg is a possessive mom, Reg is such a Gryffindor though he'd never admit it, Regulus Black Lives, Regulus Black is not a good person, Regulus Black-centric, Reincarnation is a theme, Treasure Hunting, a scene of child abuse, but he loves Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23945977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johnnyfer/pseuds/Johnnyfer
Summary: Regulus was viciously reminded that, despite what he thought, he did have a heart beating in his chest. Black as his name and hard as nails it was, but not all of it: some parts were soft and tender like a ripe fruit.Harry gets stuck in Regulus' black heart and finds a family.
Relationships: Regulus Black & Harry Potter
Comments: 89
Kudos: 351





	1. Pride

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: disturbing imagery (loss of limbs, blood and so on), writer's first language is not English.
> 
> Regulus deserts Voldemort but not because he's a good person or a repentant Death Eater.

Regulus was many things, but most of all, he was prideful. Prideful to the bone. When he decided to march to his death, he didn't do it out of heroism or altruism. He wasn't thinking about the common good, really. What drove him were personal reasons: his damn pride, his honor, his dignity. Those traits his parents had injected into his nature since he was a child.

So proud he was, that his Animagus form was a lion. A young beast with razor-sharp claws and a soft mane. The first time he managed to change into his animal form (roaring so powerfully he was heard from miles away) he told himself that since he wasn't a foolish Gryffindor, the lion had nothing to do with braveness, but, obviously, with fierceness, _regality_. It was only suitable for the heir of the Noble and Ancient House of Black to be able to turn into the king of all animals.

Even so, he never told a single soul about his animal form.

It had been the lion inside him that had pushed him to the tragic decision of sacrificing his own life. He had sworn he'd make his master pay for what he'd done to his elf, his loyal servant, his property . The Dark Lord had dared to try and kill something that belonged to Regulus, and that could never be forgiven nor forgotten. Maybe it was the little push Regulus had been waiting for. The wake-up call he needed to finally stop lying to himself.

He had been played for a fool.

The Dark Lord didn't care about the freedom of witches and wizards. Nor about Regulus' hungry pureblood pride who needed to sit again on the throne of the world, be it muggle or magical. He never gave a damn, his master, that Regulus had given his own freedom for that dream. Made himself be marked like cattle, all for a utopia bloomed in his chest when he was only a wide-eyed sixteen-year-old. That dream had soon turned into an unsavory reality. The Dark Lord cared about one thing and one thing only: his own power. 

But this time he'd crossed a line Regulus wasn't willing to overlook: he forced Kreacher to drink poison, he tortured him almost into madness. If Regulus hadn't order Kreacher to come back, he would be without his loyal servant now. But luckily he had, and then, he spent days brewing and sweating over a cauldron, trying to find a cure for a poison that had never been seen before.

He had succeeded in the end. Regulus was many things (prideful most of all) but he was not an idiot.

And while he watched Kreacher slowly recovering, he'd promised, under his breath, a thousand times that he would kill the Dark Lord for what he'd done. Whatever that took.  
Regulus was a Black and a Black didn't play with words when it came to vowing revenge against someone. So he would set things right, no matter how high the cost.

But he hadn't known that said man was immortal. He found out only when his elf finally woke up, crying and retching and wailing as if he'd been snatched back from the bowels of hell itself.

Regulus listened to his elf's terrified tale. Then he made some research, consulted some dark books, consulted some old portraits of noble ancestors and discovered his master's secret.

Taking the Dark Lord most important treasure, his immortality was even more tempting than killing the man himself. It was the perfect payback for what the Dark Lord had done. Not to mention, a target more attainable for Regulus to strike at: he knew he had very little chance to take the man's life in a duel. But, this horcrux, _half_ of the man soul and life could be destroyed somehow, Regulus was sure. And, if he succeeded, his pride would finally placate its anger.

He was running out of time, so he took his decision in a matter of days. Early in the morning, he went to collect Kreacher. His elf looked at him as if he'd gone mad, and maybe Regulus was. It didn't matter though, nothing could make him go back on his word and maybe it was better not to be too lucid when walking on your own legs towards an agonizing death.

Death. He wasn't even twenty yet, he was so full of life and energy. _It's not fair_ , he thought for the first time, his voice in his mind sounded so childish. He knew it was a lie, he could blame no one but his own terrible choices: he'd damned himself since the moment he took that mark on his arm. So happy he'd been to join the ranks... such a fool he'd been. And that mark was as eternal as his master, as eternal as Regulus' shame. He would rather die than live with that indelible stain on his honor.

So, inside the cave, he went, and he crossed the black waters of the lake on the boat made by the Dark Lord. Kreacher on his side shaking like a leaf. He knew that if he got caught here his master would kill him most horrifically, for the Dark Lord had always been merciless towards his enemies, but it was backstabbing traitors he loathed more than anything. Regulus was, most likely, the worst traitor of all. The thought, instead of terrifying him, excited him.

The poison glimmered as green as a precious gem. The exact shade of green the Dark Lord liked to shoot at people's faces to make them stop breathing. But, it was also the same color spring painted on the grass of the Quidditch pitch, on the hills surrounding Hogwarts... _That_ green was Regulus' favorite color. He let out a shaky breath. How cruel was his mind for reminding him of life just when he stood so close to death.

A sob escaped Kreacher, distracting Regulus from his nostalgic thoughts. He knew why his servant was crying.

"Calm yourself, Kreacher," he said, his voice reverberating through the cave. "I will not make you drink this poison. And I'm slightly offended you would think otherwise. "

Kreacher looked at him with big watery eyes. Regulus brought back his gaze on the potion and added:

"Why, after I spent days trying to save your life, you'd think I'd just threw it away like that? That doesn't make any sense now, does it? No, of course, not. I'll be the one to drink the potion. "

He explained his plan to Kreacher, who was growing more and more horrified by his words. When Regulus was done talking the elf just stood there, speechless for long seconds, almost as if expecting his master to tell him it was all just a bad joke. One stern look from Regulus made him realize it wasn't.

His elf exploded in an unprecedented show of rebellion and desperation that left Regulus agape. Never in his life, he'd seen Kreacher protesting so loudly and violently. His mother would have been shocked by such an undignified display. (It was better not to think about his mother).

"You'll stop immediately with this ruckus and do as I say," he murmured, darkly.

"NO! I won't do it! I won't, I _won't!_ " Kreacher shouted back between hiccups. Regulus' eyebrows rose in disbelief.

" _Enough!_ " he said, his tone menacing. "I'm not asking you, I'm giving you an order."

"Make Kreacher drink the potion!" the elf protested, he was on his knees, his little fists clutching Regulus' clothes. "Kreacher would do it gladly. He would gladly die for Master Regulus. His Masters' life is worth a thousand times Kreacher's!"

Regulus smiled, sadly.

"You're wrong," he replied calmly, his voice almost a whisper. "There is no difference between my life and yours, Kreacher... except, that I was born free, while you weren't."

Kreacher stared at him in confusion.

"I've been a servant for years now. And I belong to a master which I can no longer bear to serve after what he's done to you."

"Kreacher... Kreacher doesn't care the Dark Lord almost killed him!" he wailed, desperate.

"Well, _I_ do!" snapped back Regulus, eyes blazing. "I offered him your services, not your _life_. He betrayed my trust, he stomped on my generosity. Do you think I can just let that slide? I never will. If I was an honorless nobody I would, but I'm not, I am a _Black_!"

The ancient name of his family echoed through the cave. Something in the water stirred.

"You do not need to despair, Kreacher," he added after a while. "This is the most virtuous end I could ever hope to meet. I will not be killed by my master, put down like a dog that has gone rabid. And I won't die by the hands of Aurors, like some common criminal."

He shook his head, a bitter smile on his lips.

"No, I'll die on my own terms: repairing my honor and exacting my revenge," he added.

"Master Regulus doesn't need to die. He could run... run away..." he suggested Kreacher with a tremulous voice.

"Ah!" made Regulus, disgusted. "And live all my life hidden under a rock? Like some vile worm, always scared of the day the Dark Lord or my enemies will find me and kill me? I'd rather die now than live hundreds of years in such a cowardly way."

Kreacher was crying quietly, his head low. Sure now that Regulus would not be persuaded to change his mind.

"Do you understand what you need to do?" Regulus asked in a softer voice. His orders had been crystal clear: Kreacher had to force him to drink the potion till the very last drop, he'd have to take the Dark Lord's little treasure and replace it with Regulus' locket. Then he'd have to kick Regulus in the waters of the lake to erase every evidence of their little trip there. After that was taken care of, Kreacher would have to go home, never say a word to anyone about what had happened in the cave, never leave the house. And then, most importantly, he'd have to destroy the locket.

Regulus had no doubt Kreacher would succeed. He had seen what elven magic was capable of. There was a reason wizards had enslaved these innocuous creatures centuries ago: their magic was practically boundless... so wizards put the bounds on the elves instead. And the Dark Lord had been so strangely blind to this type of magic, such a naive mistake he'd made, it was embarrassing really. Another reason for Regulus to renounce his mark.

"I understand the orders, Master Regulus" answered Kreacher, miserably.

"Good. Let's proceed, then."

He stared down at the green liquid. He had to act now and do what needed to be done without thinking too much about it. Before the fear gripped him. Where would he go when he died? Surely not Heaven, if that even existed. He wasn't a cruel man, wasn't like Bella who loved to stick scorching knives in the flesh of muggles and see how long it would take for them to go mad. He didn't take pleasure in inflicting pain on others. But, he'd spilled blood before, many times, in battles, without a shadow of regret. He had learned how to cast a Killing Curse without breaking a sweat and he had promptly used it whenever he'd needed it.  
It didn't matter though, he didn't believe in Heaven or Hell, damnation or salvation. He was a Black and he believed in the sweet water of Lethe, the underworld river, which would make him forget all this wretched life. He would drink from it, losing his memories and past... then, when the time was right, his soul would be born again inside the Black family. Maybe his name would still be Regulus.

( _If_ there was still a Black family to be born into, considering he was dying without children, his parents were in their fifties and going crazier and crazier by the day and not likely to reproduce again, and Sirius... well Sirius had never been a real Black to begin with).

He didn't need to think about all this. He needed to drink the potion, needed to keep on his path. With a shaky hand, he conjured a goblet, dipped it in the potion and took it to his lips.

The first sip wasn't worst than a particularly strong firewhiskey. It burnt his mouth and throat but the discomfort disappeared as soon as it came. He drowned the goblet in one go. He refilled it again before he was even done swallowing, Kreacher at his side was still crying uncontrollably.

It didn't take much for the poison to start having effects on his mind and body. Kreacher had told him about its effects, but, bless his elf's simple mind, his description had barely scratched the surface of the potion's nature.

It was like drinking desperation in its purest form. Like having a dementor crawling down his throat until it reached the heart and started squeezing. And Regulus was viciously reminded that, despite what he thought, he did have a heart beating in his chest. Black as his name and hard as nails it was... but not everywhere and not all of it: some parts there were soft and tender like a ripe fruit. It was those parts the potion was brutally attacking.

"Mother... Father!", a cry for help ripped from his very soul. How much he needed them now, more than he ever did as a child. But they wouldn't answer. They wouldn't reach out to help him. _A Black doesn't cry_ , they were saying, _a Black doesn't beg_. Don't make us ashamed of you.

Regulus wouldn't, couldn't, ever.

Who else would help him if not his parents? His insides and bones were burning with the fire of the potion, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the torment his mind was plummeting into.

"Bella, Cissy!" he cried, mad with fear and despair.

The proud faces of his cousins floated in front of his eyes. _Traitor_ , they hissed, angrily, their eyes as dark as a starless night, their tongues long and black like vipers. _Bloodtraitor_ , they called him. Andromeda was there as well, she barely looked at him with disdain before turning away. They soon disappeared, leaving him alone with his agony.

"Sirius!"

The name escaped his lips before he could stop it. A dagger to his heart, hurting more than he could ever imagine. There was a well-known laugh in his ear that sunk the dagger deeper in his chest. _Idiot, you've always been an idiot... and you deserve this_. His brother had never sounded this cold and unforgiving. _Farewell, I won't miss you._

Who would help him? Who would save him? Who?!

Kreacher, he suddenly realized with a certainty that left him breathless with relief. _Kreacher_. His elf would help him, he _would_. When had he ever failed to answer his call? When had he ever denied him the support he needed? Hadn't he always been there to dry his tears as a child, with a tenderness and dedication not even his mother had ever shown him? Hadn't he always calmed him down after a nightmare? Hadn't he always fed him when he was hungry, warmed him up when he was cold, made him happy when he was sad? A tremendous wave of affection towards his elf suddenly overwhelmed him, numbing the pain.

_Oh, Kreacher, I care so much about you, you're so important to me and I never realized, I never told you... But you always knew anyway._

"Kreacher!"

"Master Regulus, Kreacher is here!" answered his elf, just as Regulus knew he would. "Master... Master Regulus... has to drink... drink the potion!" he said with anguish.

Regulus didn't want to drink another single sip. But he trusted Kreacher to know better, he trusted him with his life. So he did as he was told.

"Drink, another goblet, Master! Just another one!"

"No... I can't. Please, make it stop"

"Master has to drink it! It's the last one!"

And Regulus obeyed his servant. Suddenly the desperation left him as if it's never been there in the first place. For a moment he felt at peace... how wonderous it was the absence of pain, how incredibly perfect. But, it was, in fact, just a moment, soon the distress overtook him once more.

"Water," he muttered, through dry lips.

Never in his life, he'd felt such thirst, water like a mirage in the desert. It was a discomfort that soon changed into an all-consuming mantra in his brain: water, water, water. He didn't even remember his name, all he knew was that he needed to drink.

Kind, tiny hands gripped his wrist and started pulling him. He felt his body being dragged on rocks. Something glimmered in the corner of his eyes: rippling water. If he had the strength he'd dive into it, but he couldn't even move a finger.

It didn't matter, though. Whoever was dragging him, dropped him inside the water like a sack of potatoes.

Lucidity came back to Regulus just as the lake's surface closed above his head, like the lid of a coffin. He remembered who he was then, he remembered where he was and why. He gaped for the shock and his mouth filled with cold water. Long, icy fingers were all over his body, gripping his limbs and torso. He could only see the complete darkness surrounding him, but he knew whom they belonged to.

Inferi.

When they started tearing through his flesh, Regulus let out the most agonizing scream of his life. It was swallowed by the water that was now mixing with his blood, becoming thicker and warmer around him.

Teeth were devouring his torso, claws were ripping off the flesh and bones from his legs and arms, breaking the skin of his shoulders, his face. There wasn't a single part of his body spared from the assault. He was being eaten alive while drowning, his lungs already filled with water.  
His delirious mind let out a hysterical laugh that Regulus heard, ringing, loud and clear in his ears. Ah, if he'd known! If he'd known beforehand just how painful his end would be, he'd never set a foot inside this cave. He'd run away, the hell with his pride and honor!

A hand gripped his shoulder, or what was left of it. This hand felt different from the others, warmer, smaller, gentler, familiar.

He felt a pull on his navel, the well-known sensation of Apparition.

The world around him swirled and the blackness filled with a vortex of colors. He felt a floor crashing against his back sending a jolt of pain throughout his body. Regulus let out a strangled, watery rasp. He only had the time to notice Kreacher's sodden eyes and the red pulp below himself that was his body before blackness exploded in front of his eyes.

***

He disobeyed his orders, he disobeyed _him_. How dare he. Impudent, disloyal, unreliable, traitor...

Regulus glowered at his elf with his right eye, the only one still intact. The left one, along with most of his face, was covered by copious, blood-stained bandages and cruelly pulsing like a spike in his skull. He was lying on a bed in what seemed to be his room at the Mansion of the Black in Southern France.

"Once I can finally use my hands again," he rasped to his elf in a dangerous but bone-tired voice. _If I still have hands_ , he added in his mind, "I'm gonna personally knit you a scarf, a hat, a pair of socks, gloves, a sweater, trousers, and shoes. Then I'm going to gift them to you and get rid of your presence!"

Kreacher recoiled as if struck and stopped in the act of bandaging his left arm to look at his Master's face. He stared at him with such a broken-hearted expression that hurt Regulus more than it had any right to. Then, as if Kreacher has somehow come to a personal conclusion in his own mind, he resumed his ministrations, a sorrowful but calm expression on his wrinkled face.

 _He doesn't believe me!_ Regulus realized, feeling the anger turning into ire. _He thinks I'm lying!_

Was he, lying? The cursed potion had shown him, as clear as day, just how widely his affection for the house elf extended. More than he ever believed his heart capable of. But that didn't mean Regulus didn't have any right to punish his elf. Especially after disobeying his Master so indecently.

"I gave you an order," he practically growled. "I ordered you to leave the cave _without me_ "

"And Kreacher did!" answered in elf, raw desperation in his voice. "But then Kreacher came back..."

"How dare you twist my words like that!" he shouted, besides himself. A pang of pain made him clutch the sheets.

"Master!"

"You disobeyed me..." Regulus muttered, darkly. "Never thought you would..."

"K.. Kreacher... loves Master Regulus t... too much to let him d...die!" sobbed the elf, the shame evident on his expression. His cries shaking uncontrollably his frame. Big, fat tears rolled down his cheeks.

Love. It seemed that such sentiment was the core of the issue here. Regulus had treated Kreacher as more than just a servant, more than a mere possession. He'd viewed him as family, hold him as dear as his parents.

Was that the real reason he'd gone after the Dark Lord's soul? To avenge, not his pride, but the attempted murder on someone he loved?

Was it love that made Regulus forget about his role as a Master, and Kreacher's duty as a servant?

The elf had left the cave and (while Regulus was being devoured by the Inferi) he'd been torn between duty and affection. The latter had eventually won and Kreacher had come back after Regulus had spent not more than a couple of minutes inside the lake. A brief time, but enough to devastate his body. Regulus was sure of it, even if he couldn't see what was left of himself, so wrapped in bandages as he was. If Kreacher hadn't been drugging him with pain relief potions, Regulus was sure he'd been madded by pain by now. The blood and flesh he'd lost to the Inferi, the green potion that was still circulating in his system...

Regulus was alive, yes, but he wasn't sure he was going to survive all this.

 _No_ , he thought, desperate. _I don't wanna die_.

He'd been so closed to death, accepting it almost too readily... but now that he was here, still alive despite all he'd been through, miraculously spared somehow, he didn't want to lose it all. He didn't even want to think about it.

Kreacher, despite his incredible magic, wasn't a healer. He was mending his wounds as best as he could. Sewing him up the same way he'd always sewed up the old curtains and carpets in Grimmauld Place, with needle and thread. Regulus hadn't seen this with his own eyes, but he'd felt the pin puncturing his flesh again and again. Such a muggle way to cure a wizard.

If it worked, it didn't matter.

"I love you too" he replied, his tone flat as if stating a fact. He saw with the corner of his eye Kreacher going completely still, ceasing his sobbing. For long minutes there was only silence in the room, Regulus stared at the ceiling wondering if Kreacher, in his shock, had forgotten how to breathe.

"I need to ask you something, Kreacher" he murmured.

His elf finally inhaled some air, letting it out in a tremulous breath.

"Anything, Master," he replied.

So much emotion behind two words. They touched his heart with the same warm, gentle fingers that had snatched him from the Inferi. His good eye covered with a veil of tears. How could he have been so blind for so long? To still let Kreacher call him "master" was a damn travesty.

"Please, don't let me die" he breathed out.

He felt like when, as a child, he asked Kreacher to sit beside his bed him all night because he was too scared to be alone.

"Never, Master," was the unfailing answer.


	2. Wounds

Regulus hopped on one foot towards the biggest bathroom of the mansion. Inside was a mirror so huge it covered the entire wall.

He'd postponed this moment for way too long. He hated to admit that he'd been utterly scared of getting re-acquainted with his own reflection.

He'd always thought beauty wasn't so important to him. Sirius had always been the handsome one and Regulus... _the less handsome one _,__ as some malevolent relatives had liked to remember him from time to time. It didn't matter, though, he'd accepted the fact without being overly torn up about it. He was as most people were: neither gorgeous nor ugly. He could live with his ordinary physical appearance... his prestigious blood made up for that.

Now, though, he asked himself if it was true what people said: that you learn to care about something only when you lose it.

He pushed the door of the bathroom open, determined to get this over with. To act in such an overly dramatic way, like some silly little girl, was beneath him. He stepped inside the bathroom and stopped dead in his tracks.

In front of him stood a wreckage.

He'd given for granted he'd lost any appealing his face had ever held... but he thought it'd be, at least, recognizable.

It wasn't.

Regulus tried and fail to reconcile the image in the mirror with the one in his own memories. There was barely a centimeter of skin that had been spared by the devastating teeth and nails of the Inferi. He knew his left eye was now gone forever, he'd mourned it already, but to see the angry-red remains of what was once his eyelid, shut down forever on the emptiness behind, sent a chill down is back.

His other eye had, by sheer luck, survived a scratch that split his face diagonally: it traveled from his right temple, broke his right eyebrow in two, crossed his nose taking a big chunk out of its bridge, and ended up erasing all the left side of his mouth, redrawing his lips in a perpetual scowl. His smile could only be a twisted one now, half happy, half sad.

The slash that had taken his left eye was surely the worst one: wide and deep, it ran from the top his head, devastated his forehead and left cheek and stopped on his neck, avoiding the carotid by mere centimeters. A third wound had left him with only half of his right ear. A fourth split his chin and jaw.

It was a scary face. It could very well belong to one of those demons described in the books of the Black library. Twisted, bloody, monstrous. Colored with red, purple and blue bruises. How stupid he'd been to worry about beauty and ugliness just some mere seconds before. He was beyond that now. Maybe he would look more human when he properly healed... or maybe he wouldn't, knowing how incredibly resistant the wounds left by dark creatures were. He could only hope the scars wouldn't be too deep.

He took off his clothes and stood naked in front of the mirror. He already knew the ravaging the Inferi had done to the rest of his body, he'd felt it in the lake and knew what he'd lost forever, but he'd never watched in the full light.

Gone was his right leg from the knee down. Kreacher had tried to reattach what was left of the limb, but soon gave up, considering there wasn't much left to reattach to begin with...

When Regulus fist realized he was now a cripple, he'd cried like a child, sobbing on the shoulder of a grief-stricken Kreacher. There was no cure and he knew it: dark magic was an unforgiving force on the human body, leaving it sterile and unchanging, incapable of properly regenerating and healing. He'd felt so old, moving around the house supporting his body with a crutch, like one of those veteran Aurors who'd fought dark wizards their entire life. How ironic was that thought.

On his torso, wide and deep scratches intertwined again and again in paths of wounds impossible to disentangle. A bite had taken a big part off his side, leaving a hole so tremendous it reminded Regulus it was only thanks to his own and Kreacher's magic that he'd survived all this. And, speaking of magic, he didn't know if he'd ever be able to hold his wand again... His right forearm was in pieces and his hand was missing two and a half fingers.

Most likely, he'd have to teach himself how to do magic with his left hand... Re-learn every spell, from the Alohomora to the Unforgivables.

On the contrary (for some strange twist of fate) his left arm, the one with Dark Mark, was still functioning almost perfectly. Although, it wasn't as pristine as it used to: a sweeping stroke had erased most of the mark, living only part of the skull and the tip of the snake's curved tail.

It looked like a strange, warped question mark. Regulus couldn't help but let out a small laugh at the thought. It really described him perfectly, didn't it? He went from being Death Eater to... what exactly?

A deceased young man, for everyone except Kreacher.

The elf had masterfully painted a skull beside his name on the family's tapestry and added the year of his death: Regulus Arcturus Black, born on the 5th of April 1961 and died the 13th of July 1979. Such a short life, for both muggles' and wizards' standards. His parents hadn't doubted the ancient and sacred tapestry for a single second. Thinking about them made his insides twist with guilt and grief.

He also tried not to think about his funeral, a private affair with only close relatives... but Kreacher had told him his brother hadn't been there.

A month had already passed since that day. A month made of crumpled sheets, drenched with blood, sweat, and tears. Regulus had fought day by day, in hell with pain, trying to survive. He'd pull through only because he was a wizard and because Kreacher had bend over backward to help him.

And then, one day, Regulus stood. With his hands gripping tightly the crutch and Kreachers' shoulder, but still, he _stood_. And he'd wondered back then as he did now, what would become of him.

He was changed. After what happened to him how could he not? He wasn't the same Regulus who'd walked inside the cave. He felt older, more vulnerable with this new damaged body and the permanent scars in his mind... and yet, more than anything, he felt _free_.

Being a dead man meant he didn't have a master to bow to anymore. The Dark Lord would not look for him even if he'd found out about his betrayal. So Regulus had all the time in the world to take his revenge.

Despite the exhaustion of his body, he'd never felt as powerful as he did while holding the Horcrux in his hands.

There it was... the only weakness of the most feared man of all. At the mercy of Regulus. And when he noticed the emerald S engraved on the surface and realized this wasn't just any locket but _Salazar Slytherin's_ locket he almost dropped it in shock. For Regulus, who was a Black through and through, it was like holding Merlin's wand.

And yet he would destroy it, there was no coming back from that. He'd swore on his pride he would. When the thought crossed his mind he felt something coming from the locket: a faint heartbeat. A bottomless malevolence. This time, the locket actually slipped from his grip.

He'd been an idiot to touch it with his bare hands. This wasn't a simple object, it contained half of the Dark Lord's soul: it was a living being. A hateful, violent, clever being.

And something told Regulus the locket knew. It _knew_ it'd been captured.

"How terrible it must be," he told the locket that was now on the carpet, inches away from his foot. "To be locked up in there, while your other half is out here, conquering the world, making it bow to his feet".

A trick of the light maybe, a tremble of the candle's flame, but Regulus was sure he'd seen a shadow crossing the golden surface of the Horcux for a moment.

"So merciless he is... even towards himself" he murmured, moving his leg so to put more distance between the locket and his foot. "You shouldn't feel left out, though... you and him share the same fate. History teaches that every Dark Lord eventually meets his match. And when that happens, when someone finally strikes the final blow at him... I'll make sure it'll be _truly_ mortal"

This time he was sure: he didn't imagine the locket's quiver at his words.

With that promise, Regulus hadn't found the answer to the question mark on his arm. He didn't know what he'd become. Looking at the mirror he could only see what he wasn't anymore, but, at least, he knew what he had to do.

***

Destroying the locket wasn't as easy as he'd hoped. Not even Kreacher had succeeded, and the elf had tried the best he could, coming up with ideas that had left Regulus speechless for how destructive and lethal they were.

When Regulus, after two months of no results, reached the limits of his patience (which had never been much, to begin with) and shot a perfectly executed Avada Kedavra at the locket, _still_ failing to destroy it, he realized he couldn't go on like this.

He needed information.

The only clues he had about Horcruxes was the information the portraits of his illustrious ancestors had shared with him the day he'd found out what a Horcrux was.

Atlas Black had been the most useful source of information: he'd lived in the 16th century and had been one of the wickedest men the Black family had ever spawn. Atlas had been so knee-deep in dark magic that he died during a ritual involving Acromantulas and children (of which Regulus didn't want to know anything about).

Anyway, the portrait of Atlas had merrily talked about Horcruxes for at least an hour. Seemingly incapable of shutting up about the topic. As a Black, Atlas would have never made a Horcrux himself: he believed in the immortality of his lineage rather than his own... but the wizard had been interested enough in the morbid ritual involving the creation of the dark object to study it thoughtfully.

He knew all about making one... and knew nothing about destroying one.

When Regulus had asked him what magic could shatter a Horcrux, Atlas had laughed, saying the whole point of a Horcrux was to be indestructible.

Nevertheless, Atlas had told him about the first man who'd ever created a Horcrux. A greek wizard named Herpo who'd lived in Korinthos between the 3rd and 4th century AD.

Regulus decided that, if there was no information to be found here, he'd have to move... go back to the beginning, where all this started.

So, one day he bought a leg made of dragon scales and a silver mask to cover his left side of his face, hiding the unseeing eye and most of his scars. Then, he said his goodbyes to a sad Kreacher, packed his things and left for Greece.

***

It took him one bloody year to find the solution to his problem. The answer came to him in Athens, where Regulus found the ghost of one of Herpo's grandchildren, (a spirit so sinister and mean it made the Bloody Baron look like a puppy).

After much convincing, the ghost told him only two elements could destroy a Horcrux: poison and fire. The first had to come from the King of snakes, the Basilisk; the second, from the burning depths of the Earth, where magical beasts made of fire roamed freely out of the reach of both muggles and wizards. The spell that could summon those fiery creatures was the _Fiendfyre_. Considering it would take Regulus ages to manage to control the cursed fire without dying in the process (if he was even capable of such powerful dark magic) Regulus soon ruled that out.

So, he searched for the serpentine poison. It took him another year, only to find a single drop of Basilisk venom. In India, around the neck of a muggle girl, who was wearing the solidified poison like a gem.

Inside a temple in Mumbai, in the middle of the night, Regulus melted the gem on Slytherin's locket and watched as the Dark Lord's soul screamed and died.

***

When he finally came back to England, after more than two years spent wandering around the world, Regulus found out his father had died, his mother had gone completely round the bend once and for all, Cissy had married that detestable Malfoy and gave birth to a child, Bella and _Sirius_ were serving a life sentence in Azkaban...

And, just a few days before his arrival, Voldemort had vanished.

Defeated by a toddler, whose existence, until then, had been completely unknown to Regulus. Everyone called him the Boy Who Lived and his name was Harry Potter.


	3. Father's Day

Harry wasn't a cry baby. Not because he was a cheerful child who never felt like crying but because he learned soon enough that tears would only make things worse. His aunt and uncle had never had any patience with tears. (Or at least _Harry's_ tears. Dudley always cried more often and much louder than he ever did, but his tears had never got him in trouble - quite the opposite). By the age of seven, Harry had successfully learned how to always keep his whines and tears to himself.

Anyway, despite his self-control, today Harry cried. The tears he'd bottled up for so long flooded the dam he'd carefully built around his eyes, making it crumble into pieces.

He blamed Mrs. Wright's for that. And the fact that it was Father's day... a celebration Harry had loathed since he was old enough to understand what it was about. Like most things in life, it made him feel different, a second-rate child, always lacking something.

Mrs. Wright was the art teacher and during today's lesson, she asked her students to draw a picture of their dad, since it was their special day. Her words had been like a punch in the gut for Harry. People usually knew he had no parents, especially grown-ups, but maybe Mrs. Wright had forgotten. So, he went up to her desk and told her, as bluntly as a seven-year-old could, that his father had died when he was very young and he could not remember what he looked like, therefore he could not draw him.

"Oh" made Mrs. Wright, but she wasn't looking at him, she wasn't paying attention, she was moving some papers on the table as if looking for something. After a minute or so, she remembered he was there and said, dismissively:

"You must have seen a _picture_ of him, Harry..." a hint of boredom in her impatient tone. "Come now, go back to your seat and do your drawing"

Harry went rigid, Mrs. Wright's words like a slap to the face. He'd never seen a picture of his dad, he didn't even know his name! But he said nothing to the teacher: she'd treated him as a lazy child trying to get out of chores... she wouldn't believe him. He'd stood there for long moments before she shooed him away to his desk, his mind reeling.

A piece of paper had never been so intimidating. The white so unforgiving, like a gaping hole in Harry's mind. Something he could not fill, no matter how hard he tried. The sounds of scratches, made by the other children around him, were cruel to his ears.

Before it could stop it, a tear rolled down his cheek.

It was okay if it was only one. He could control it and no one would notice. But he needed to calm down. He breathed out slowly, his eyes still on the blank paper. He tried to go back with his mind as he often did, but, as usual, he failed to find an image he could call mom or dad. His memory hadn't been old enough to shape a figure. All he remembered was the green light. So the green light he drew.

At the end of the lesson, when Mrs. Wright found out, she wasn't happy. She took his drawing in her hands, her brown furrowed. "What is this?" she asked, irritation and surprise in her voice. Harry didn't answer, didn't even look at her, kept his arms folded. "This is not what I told you to do. How could you not understand the simple task I've given you?" she continued, talking to him as if he was an _idiot_.

Some children around him laughed, Dudley's voice louder than the rest. Harry kept his mouth shut, but something was growing inside his chest, something angry and agitated.

"I asked you a question!"

It was the sudden shout that made Harry jolt and his fury explode all at once. He shot to his feet and screamed.

" _I said I don't remember my father!_ "

He didn't push her but she fell anyway, backward against the shelves containing acrylic paint. Buckets dropped on her, one after the other, opening up and pouring colors on her head.

When Mrs. Wright stood up, moments later, her hair was blue and her face red.

***

Harry was in trouble. Maybe more than he'd ever been in his entire life. He'd been reprimanded by Mrs. Wright, then his other teachers, then the headmaster, then his aunt. He never had so many people angry at him all at once. And no matter how loudly he protested his innocence, nobody was willing to listen to his side of the story. He hadn't pushed Mrs. Wright, he hadn't even touched her, everyone in his class had seen that yet no one had stood up for him. He wasn't his fault her hair was now as blue as the brightest sky. (Although Harry could have sworn the hair had changed color _before_ the paint had fallen on Mrs. Wright, but he didn't see how that was possible).

Now, in the privacy of his cupboard, the only shelter he'd ever known, Harry, was weeping, huddled in a corner of his cot. His unrestrained tears streamed down his cheeks, soaking his glasses and the sleeve he kept running on his face. He didn't remember the last time had cried so much, with sobs shaking his body. He wished he could say he was crying tears of anger, for the injustice he'd endured that day, but that was just partly the truth. And he wished he could say he was crying because he was scared of his uncle Vernon who would be home soon and whose type of reprimands had always been the most aggressive and unforgiving Harry had ever received, but this also was a lie... somehow his uncle had never managed to scare Harry as much as he wished to.

No, what made Harry cried was the damn piece of paper. It had hurt him more than all the angry words shouted at him. He couldn't shake it out of his mind, no matter how hard he tried. It was there behind his eyelids whenever he shut his eyes, so white and silent and mean. He'd occurred to him only hours later that he could have lied. He could have drawn anyone, really. Who would have known he was making it all up? His father had surely had eyes, a nose and a mouth like anyone else, no matter how much of a dead beat and a drunkard he'd been while he was alive...

And yet all Harry had thought about was the void inside his brain. Where somebody familiar was always moving, but always vague and out of reach, all silent and invisible like a ghost. All... except for the green light.

He kept on crying until he ran out of tears.

***

"Your father and I have been thinking about finding you that wife," said Walburga Black, one hand sipping tea, the other gripping the armrest of her chair as if clawing a prey.

Behind her, Regulus rolled his eyes. His hand halted just for a moment before returning on his mother's head, brushing the hair now as perfectly white as once had been perfectly black.

"There's no hurry" he replied after a minute or so. His voice calm.

"Nonsense, you're already eighteen!" she answered, her face half turning to look at him.

Regulus was already _twenty-six_ , but, he wouldn't dream of correcting his mother. Not when it could ruin this rare moment of peace. Most days Walburga wasn't this collected and relaxed, she would scream to high heaven, cursing practically everyone she'd ever known.

Today was one of those rare occasions she recognized her son, although it was only because her mind was stuck in the past, believing Orion was still alive and well, holed up in his office as usual and Regulus just fresh out of Hogwarts.

"Don't worry, with a lineage like yours, you can have your pick" she added, a sly smile on her lips.

Regulus fixed her hair in a high bun, like the one she used to wear when her mind was still in one piece. The result very different from the past, Walburga was just a shadow of the imposing witch she was. Magic and madness did not get along well, they had taken a toll on her body making her skin as yellow as an old piece of parchment and as wrinkled as a peeled chestnut.

Regulus was sure, if he hadn't been here, taking care of his mother all these years, she would have been dead by now. When Kreacher wasn't looking, she would have accidentally drunk poison (of which the House of Black was very well-furnished) or she would have hurt herself with her own magic.

"What about Boglarka Bulstrode?" she continued, placing her cup on the table, a gleam in her eyes "She has a good reputation, good money and of course good blood

"Mh" answered Regulus, disinterested, his eyes still on his mother's head, studying the result of his work. It wasn't perfect but, as his first attempt, it was not so bad either... he didn't even use magic.

"No, she won't do." decided Walburga after a while. "You're so handsome... while she looks so vulgar"

 _And she's been married to Samuel Parkinson for almost nine years now,_ added Regulus in his mind.

"Maybe Camille Nott…"

The doorbell interrupted her. Regulus went rigid, all his senses suddenly alert. Kreacher appeared at his side in a heartbeat.

"Oh, this must be Cygnus!" said Walburga, serene, her hands flattening non-existing wrinkles on her skirts. "Come on, Kreacher go open the door!"

Regulus didn't even need to exchange a single look with his elf. After almost six years of performing this pantomime, they both knew to the point of perfection how to behave whenever a visitor knocked on their door.

Regulus vanished with a flick of his wand his untouched cup of tea. While voices started coming from the corridor, he hid in the alcove behind the Black Family tapestry. He could see through the fabric as if made of glass but nobody could see him.

As he suspected, it wasn't Cygnus coming for a visit, his uncle had barely been around since his sister had gone completely mad... on the contrary, his younger daughter had never missed a visit to her aunt.

Narcissa stood by the door of the living room, a courteous but guarded expression. She studied Walburga, who was now staring into emptiness, the visit already forgot. Deciding after a long moment it was safe to reveal her presence, Narcissa entered the living room, followed by a blond child Regulus had never seen before but whose identity was easy to guess.

"Aunt Walburga" greeted Narcissa, always so affectionate.

Very slowly, Walburga's gaze moved to her. A spark of lucidity in her eyes.

"Narcissa" she smiled, after a moment, "I'm glad you could come"

What a rare day was for Walburga to recognize not only her son but her niece as well. Narcissa brightened, her white teeth flashing. Regulus felt something warm squeezing his heart for a moment.

"I'm glad to be here" replied Narcissa smiling, but she was fiddling with the gloves in her hands. "I wanted you to meet someone," she said, hesitant, after a while.

She opened up her arm and gestured for the child to come closer.

"This is my son Draco" she said, unmistakable fondness in her voice. Besides her, the little boy looked almost comical in his conceited air and proud bearing. He stared at his great-aunt as if expecting her to start praising him from head to foot. But Walburga disappointed him, for she looked through the boy as if he was invisible before turning her attention back to Narcissa.

"So, how's your sister?" she asked.

Mighty offended by Walburga's indifference, Draco ducked under his mother's arm and start looking around the living room, touching everything he could get his little hands on. A sadness had crept in Narcissa blue eyes. It was obvious she was thinking about Bella (the only sister Walburga could refer to since Andromeda was non-existent since she married the mudblood) and how she could not be fine since she'd been locked up in Azkaban for years now.

"I like your hair, aunt" she steered the conversation. "I don't even remember the last time I've seen you with a bun"

"Oh" answered Walburga distracted, raising a hand to her head. "Regulus did it…"

She stared a Narcissa with uncharacteristic clearness in her gaze. Her niece's eye twitched.

"Strange boy he is... but good son, perfect heir. You'd have been better off marrying him, rather than _Lucius_." she spat, "Malfoys... weaklings they are"

Narcissa jolted like a whip, quickly turning to reassure herself her son was out of ear-shot. A pale hand raised to her stomach as to steady herself.

"Oh, auntie, what is the point of making an alliance with those who are already allies?" she uttered, without emotion.

"Ah!" made Walburga, disgusted. "Black don't need anyone's money nor power, we have enough of our own" she straightened up on her chair, a shadow of lost vigor in her posture. "Only a Black is good enough for a Black. Why, I always knew nobody could compete with Orion, that's why I married him. You and Regulus, the perfect match"

Narcissa looked something between uncomfortable and sad. For the first time since her arrival, she avoided looking into her aunt's crazed stare.

"I wonder where he went..." continued Walburga, looking for her son around the living room. "Good boy, reliable son, but strange one he is, always been..." she repeated.

Failing to find him, she started calling for him with a loud voice, again and again until Narcissa decided to put a stop to it.

"Aunt," she started, cautiously putting a hand on her shoulder. "Regulus is not here. He's... he's at Hogwarts, remember?"

"Nonsense! He's here, I'm telling you, I've seen him just moments ago. No matter how much disfigured, I'll always recognize my sons!"

Walburga froze. And Narcissa tensed dramatically.

 _Sons_. The plural had slipped.

Regulus knew instantaneously the peaceful day was over.

Narcissa knew that too, as she started looking afraid for the first time since her arrival, releasing her aunt's shoulder and taking a step back. Her agitated eyes searching for Draco. The child was tracing with his finger the old tapestry of the Black Family, inches away from where Regulus was hiding.

Walburga had gone completely still, but a hateful expression was rising to her face, twisting it almost beyond recognition. Narcissa quickly tried to avoid the inevitable, with the spirit of someone fully aware of fighting a losing battle.

"Dear Auntie, tell me once again about that time you and father…"

"CURSE YOU EUPHEMIA POTTER!"

The scream broke the air like an explosion. Draco jumped out of his skin, terrified.

Walburga was on her feet, her grey pupils burst with bottomless mania.

"I CURSE THAT WOMAN!" she howled, her voice at ear-splitting levels. "I SWEAR ON THE SPIRIT OF MY ANCESTORS SHE'LL SUFFER DEEPLY!"

Draco started crying. Regulus was sure he would have run behind his mother if she wasn't standing so close to the source of his distress.

"Auntie, calm down, _please_. There's no need for this, Euphemia Potter is long dead.." tried Narcissa.

"SHE STOLE MY SON, THAT OLD COW!"

"Auntie, _please!_ "

White locks of hair were falling from the bun as Walburga kept on screaming her lungs out.

Regulus soon tuned his mother's wailings out, it was easy to ignore a script he'd heard almost every day for the past six years. He knew Walburga would scream for an hour or so, cursing all the Potters, then Sirius, then Dumbledore, then, of course, the mudbloods and bloodtraitors because why not. Until exhausted, she would collapse and cry her eyes out. Why would her son run to another mother, when Walburga had always, always wanted what was best for him?

Regulus spotted Kreacher in a corner of the living room. He was making an inconspicuous signal with his hands, something only he and Regulus knew meant " _Kreacher has to speak with Master"._

Curiosity piqued, Regulus pushed the wall behind him, opening a passage that led down to the kitchen. Once he got there the crack of apparition fo Kreacher sounded right beside him.

"What is it, Kreacher?" he asked, right away. It was odd for Kreacher to stay away from Walburga while she was having one of her moments, the elf usually felt compelled to stay close to his mistress.

"Kreacher has found him, Master" the elf sounded so excited and so pleased with himself. "Kreacher has found the Potter boy"

Regulus eyes widened, hardly believing his own ears.

_Finally._

"Where?"

"Among filthy muggles, Master."

***

Six bloody years to find a damn child. It had been easier to find a way to destroy the Horcrux and the basilisk poison. Regulus didn't know _precisely_ what it was, but every time he got _this_ close to finding the boy's location something pushed him back to the starting point. There were too many clues to follow to get to the child, one faker than the other, but oh so well constructed all of them, all so damn plausible.

Dumbledore was behind it, Regulus was sure of it. He recognized the signs of the old wizard: harmless yet shatterproof. But Regulus had managed before to slip through the cracks of the headmaster's magic, going around Hogwarts with the Dark Mark on his arm, unnoticed for _two years_. And if he hadn't been made Head Boy by Dumbledore it was only because Regulus was the quintessential pure-blooded Slytherin, not because he was a junior Death Eater…

Truth to be told, it was also Regulus fault it took him so long to find Potter. He hadn't been overly invested in this search. he didn't really feel the _need_ to do this, what drove him was pure and simple curiosity, nothing more.

When he'd set on the mission of paving the way for the future Dark Lords's vanquisher, he hadn't imagined Voldemort's match to be a child.

And _Potter's son_ , of all people.

Fate was mocking him, Regulus was sure.

Well, he was curious to see this miracle child. In Regulus' mind, before anything else, Harry Potter was the one who finished what Regulus had started years ago in that cave.

***

When Regulus arrived at Privet Drive, the sky was turning over into the night, coloring the muggles' houses of violet and pink. Regulus was invisible to anyone as he walked down the street, excitement in his belly, in eyes searching for number four.

When he found it he stared at the house for long moments: a cube so pristine, clean, and sterile. Something about it sent a chill down Regulus' spine. Something told him to turn and run and forget about the boy. Something felt dangerous. Still, he walked until he was standing just a couple of steps from the lawn.

He couldn't see who was talking, but muffled voices could be heard from an open window of the living room.

"I said I did _not_ push her!"

It was the voice of a child, angry and tired all the same. Curious, Regulus took a step forward.

"Now, listen here, you _brat!_ " barked a man, spitefully, "I will not tolerate this! You and your craziness! I've had to postpone a very important meeting today because of _you_ , the headmaster kept me on the phone for ages, telling me how much of a violent little freak you are!"

The man's voice was dripping with a loathing so intense it made Regulus’ skin crawl. He moved to the side, a million questions rushing through his brain, until he saw the shape of a stout man, with thick mustaches and a face reddened with anger. Of the child, Regulus could see nothing, if not of a few wisps of black hair.

"I did not touch Mrs. Wright!"

"Stop lying!"

"I am not lying! I didn't touch her, she fell by herself…"

"YOU PUSHED HER!"

"I DID NOT! It was as if something invisible hit her! Like... like magic!"

There was a beat of shocked silence.

Then Regulus saw the beefy arm of the man rising, all the unrestrained violence he put behind every muscle before a loud slap shattered the air, followed by a faint cry. Regulus tensed up like a whip as if he was the one who just got struck.

" _Don't say that word!_ " hissed the man, beside himself with fury. _"I forbid you!"_

It followed another moment of complete silence. Both in the house and Regulus's mind. Then, his legs start moving by their own accord, marching towards the house.

It felt as if he'd shed years like skin in a matter of seconds, found back everything that once had made him a Death Eater, found back his old purpose, his old enemies: muggles. Violent, ignorant, scared little muggles, just waiting for Regulus to put them in the dirt where they belonged.

He was halfway through the lawn when he suddenly crushed against something. A violent force exploded against his chest like a cannonball, making him fall to the ground.

He screamed.

He felt pain as he'd never known before, like fire scorching his soul. All concentrated in one place... his forearm, where his old, butchered Dark Mark stood.

He rolled on his side, left arm curled into his body, mind reeling. _What the hell just happened?_

The pain was fading as quickly as it had erupted, but Regulus was still in shock: it had been so powerful, so bloody vicious! It wasn't like when Voldemort used to call him to his side, it was a different type of magic, something else entirely, although just as lethal.

"Who's there?!" screeched a blond woman from the window. Evans' muggle sister, Regulus guessed. Ugly to the point of impossibility. Her spooked eyes looked around the lawn before she quickly shut the window and drew the curtains.

Regulus groaned as he set up. The Dark Mark was like blazing coals, red and aglow on his arm. Alive as it hadn't been in years. Regulus's mind was dizzy with confusion.

Something had stopped his attempt to get inside the house as if there was a magical barrier surrounding it. Against all common sense, he tried to pass through it for a second time. A hiss like water on a hot pan, he withdrew his hand as the second wave of pain overtook his arm. Strange that only his mark hurt and nothing else.

He looked up: rather than seeing it, he could _sense_ it now, it was like a gigantic dome surrounding the building. No, it wasn't a dome: it was a column of magic so tall it reached the sky and the stars. It carried within itself the fury and feral protectiveness of a mother. Regulus eyes widened as he understood: this, was Evans' magic.

His breath left his lungs all at once, and Regulus knew by instinct that _this_ was what had done it, _this_ had killed Voldemort.

And now he was reacting to Regulus the same way.

Although it was not rejecting _him_ per se... but his mark. What once had made Regulus the Dark Lord's propriety, his connection to the man... But how could the connection still be present if Voldemort was _dead_? 

The questions cut through Regulus like a knife.

He felt his heart began to creep up his windpipe.

How could the Dark Mark be so alive, if Voldemort wasn't?

No, he shook his head, his eyes still fixated on Evan's magic. No, no, no he refused to believe the implications of this discovery. It was impossible, it was _madness_. He put his hands in his hair. He was wrong. He was overreacting. He couldn't get inside the house because he was a dark wizard and a killer, that was the only reason. Voldemort had nothing to do with it.

Ah, but he could feel it now, couldn't he?

Something has awoken the second he touched Evans' protection. It was as vivid as ever in his burning mark: a link he though severed forever, a line between his arm and another man soul. It was as insignificant as a drop in the ocean but it was there nonetheless.

And now Regulus could feel _him_ standing on the other side of this feeble connection. Looming like a puppet master on the other side of the thread. If Regulus hadn't noticed him until now it was only because his master was more dead than alive.

_Alive._

Regulus wanted to cry. Or laugh hysterically, he wasn't sure.

Angry shouts could still be heard from the living room, they went on for long minutes until they shut down completely. Regulus sat on the Dursley's lawn until all the stars in the sky came out and all the lights of the house turned off

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reg and Harry will meet in the next chapter :3


	4. The One-Eyed Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you for the support, comments and kudos I have received so far! It means a lot and I can't thank you all enough :)

Regulus took a long drag on the hookah hose. Then he released a ring of blue smoke into the air. It's been years since he'd done this. He blamed the high level of stress he had to endure since he'd discovered that, despite all his efforts, his former master was still alive. He was scraping the bottom of the barrel for anything that could give him some peace of mind, old vices and all were more than welcome.

"I've decided you're going to take care of the Potter issue, Kreacher" he said.

His words got ignored, as Kreacher was too busy glaring at the smoke floating around the kitchen of Grimmauld Place and at his masters' feet, which were (both fake and real) placed on the table. Regulus cleared his throat in a raspy sound, attracting his servant's attention.

"Did Master said something?" the elf asked, grumpy.

"Yes, I said Potter is going to leave those abhorrent muggles and you're going to help me"

Krecher didn't look surprised at his words.

"I've seen how they're treating him," he waved his hand, moving the smoke around. "If the child doesn't grow up hating muggles, I am a damn mudblood. I am _not_ having another Dark Lord plotting genocides and world domination in a decade or so".

It was bad enough knowing Voldemort was still around.

And it was bad enough knowing Regulus had given so much for one single goal... just to lose it all. He'd swore on his pride he'd destroy Voldemort's immortality and he failed. And now, he didn't know what to do.

His hand raised to his chest and caressed the remains of Slytherin's locket. Now it looked like a burnt, crumpled leaf. After destroying the fragment of soul inside, Regulus hadn't been able to throw it away: it was still Slytherin's locket, no matter how ragged, broken and unrecognizable. Just how Regulus was still Regulus despite all his scars and physical impairments.

The locket he'd found by accident, he had no idea how to find the other Horcruxes. And how _many_ were there? How much had Regulus underestimated the Dark Lord's madness?

Regulus didn't even know Voldemort's real name, never mind where he hid the bits of his soul. All he could guess was that the Dark Lord had chosen extremely valuable objects as vessels, if Slytherin's locket was anything to go by.

But the world was full of treasures. And Regulus was just one man.

So, he felt he could do nothing... except, maybe avoid another disaster by taking Potter away from those filthy muggles. Avoid the inevitable results of a childhood brimmed with oppression and hatred. Not to mention the protection around the child, that unbreakable armor made by Evan's magic. What kind of invulnerability was at the child's disposal? And what could Potter do with it, once he grew up?

The boy had already spent more than six years with those nauseous muggles. Regulus could only hope he wasn't too late.

"What does Kreacher have to do, Master?"

Regulus blew a plume of smoke towards the ceiling and his elf shot him a nasty look.

"I doubt I can touch the boy, the Dark Mark won't let me. So you have to go by yourself, Kreacher. Be discreet, lure the child away from everyone. Apparate with him to our house in Alentejo"

Kreacher nodded dutifully, in his usual manner, as if Regulus had just asked him to change the bed-sheets.

"Won't people notice Harry Potter's disappearance? The child is quite famous..."

"Don't worry about it" Regulus stood up, glancing at the ebony clock of the kitchen. "I've already taken care of that, just need to wrap things up".

Five minutes to the appointment which would set his plan in motion. It had taken him three months but finally he would reap the benefits of his work.

"I have to go," he said vanishing the hookah with a flick of his wand. "Wait for my signal"

Kreacher nodded, his determined eyes reassured Regulus that, by the end of the day, Harry Potter would be miles away from those repulsive muggles.

***

In 1977 Regulus became a Death Eater. During the same year his comrade Evan Rosier, ever the creative bastard, invented the Mudblood Mark. It was nothing more than a huge, blood-red "M" which run across the face of those deemed unworthy enough to wear it. It was something borne of dark magic and nothing could erase it.

Leonard Hawks, former Auror and war survivor, had concealed the Mudblood Mark on his face almost perfectly, with a full beard and magical cosmetics. But Regulus' keen eye had noticed it immediately. Behind the concealment, the lines of the "M" started from the man's hairline, crossed on the bridge of his nose, and descended below his eyes like faded tear tracks.

"Let's get this over with" said Hawks, showing a confidence he definitely didn't feel.

 _Yes_ , thought Regulus, _let's get this over with._

Hawks ran a hand across his face, restless.

"Do you really have to use the Imperius Curse?" he asked as if he couldn't help himself.

Regulus almost rolled his eyes.

"Yes" he uttered, drily.

"Why?"

"Because I'd rather play safe"

"Why can't my word be enough?"

Regulus guffawed. Hawks shot him a poisonous look.

"Come on, Hawks" he replied, amused "You'll be masquerading as someone else for _four years_ . Nobody can act for such a long time without slipping up at least once... especially when you'll be playing a role so different from your own identity. I can't afford for that to happen, your performance must be _flawless_. Therefore I have to put you under the Imperius"

"What _role_ will I be playing?" asked Hawks, a touch of hostility in his voice.

"I don't have to tell you and you know it" replied Regulus, curtly.

Hawks stood up and started pacing around the room. They were staying in a disreputable inn of Nocturn Alley. The windows so dirty they clouded the sun, casting a grey light on the dusted floor.

"How low I have sunk", sighed Hawks. "To make deals with criminals and thieves..."

Regulus' mood soured instantly.

How dare he.

"This _thief_ has stolen the potion which saved your daughter's life." he hissed through his teeth. "This _criminal_ stayed true to his side of the deal. Now it's your turn, Mr. Hawks"

Hawks' shoulders slumped. He shot Regulus a half-resigned, half-ashamed look.

"I apologize, I meant no offense. I just wish things would be different." His eyes darkened. "I fought for the Ministry. I sweated blood for the Ministry. I've been tortured by Death Eaters and risked my life in the war against You-Know-Who. And yet, here I am: forced to accept a deal involving the worst kind of dark magic. Only because the Ministry wouldn't help my daughter... only because she's a werewolf"

A werewolf who'd been struck by another curse (courtesy of one of Hawks' many enemies) contracting a rare disease which required an even rarer potion as a cure. It was a potion too expensive, too unique, the Ministry wouldn't waste it on a dark creature. Never-mind the child would die if she didn't get the potion in time: one less werewolf to worry about.

Regulus had studied the dire situation of the Hawks' family and recognize it for what it was: the perfect opportunity. So, he stole the cure for them. And now he would collect what they owe him. Thankfully, Hawks was an utter Griffyndor who felt compelled to always repay his debts.

"Yes, yes, the Ministry should burn to the ground, everybody knows that" replied Regulus, rather unsympathetically. "Now, can we move on? I'm on a tight schedule"

He took a scroll and a Blood Quill from his pocket.

"You have to sign this"

Hawks looked at the contract, nervous.

"Four years" he breathed.

"Yes, four years. Not a long time for a wizard"

"I won't see my daughter grow up"

"But at least, she _will_ grow up"

Hawks sighed heavily. He took the Blood Quill in his hand. He hesitated.

"Come now, Hawks." pressed Regulus. "I promised you, no harm will come out of this. Quite the contrary: you'll be helping someone in a very bad situation. Someone I'm _sure_ you'd like to help"

Hawks wasn't convinced but, after one final pause, he scratched down his name, lightning-quick, blood blotching the corners of the parchment, his hand bleeding just for a moment.

"Perfect" commented Regulus, satisfied. Now Hawks' lips were sealed forever and he could never reveal their deal to anyone. He stood up. "Now open your mouth"

"Why?" asked Hawks, alarmed.

"I have to plant this in your gums" said Regulus as he took a fake tooth from his inner pocket. "It's filled with Polyjuice Potion... and it will refill automatically once it's empty. So the potion will always run through your system. It will stop working only after the four years have passed and our deal is over"

Hawks looked doubtfully at the pearly tooth.

"Does... does that really work?"

"It sure does. I have been using it for years, I am using it right now"

Hawks gaze moved back to Regulus' face, studying his features, realizing they were a lie.

"Will I ever know who you really are?"

"Never"

Regulus smiled and Hawks looked scared for the first time since his arrival. Nevertheless, the former Auror stood still and opened his mouth as Regulus replaced his molar with the magical device.

Soon Hawks' body started shrinking. His clothes became too big and fell from his shoulders. His beard and the Mudblood Mark disappeared. His brown hair turned black. His blue eyes, now green.

"What..." Hawks was looking down at himself, shocked. "But this...this is a _child_!"

His hands raised to his face. Little fingers stopped abruptly as they reached his forehead. Very slowly, they traced the scar there, following the path of a lightning bolt.

As Hawks' eyes filled with horror, Regulus shot the Imperius Curse.

***

Harry walked under a leaden sky, smelling the upcoming rain in the evening breeze.

He knew he should go home: his sneakers were full of holes and would soon be swimming in water once the summer storm rolled in. Sodden feet in sodden shoes were such an unpleasant sensation. But he'd spotted something strange, _very_ strange, and his curiosity had always been stronger than his common sense.

There was an unusual creature lurking around.

Harry had seen it twice already: once inside the rose-bushes of Aunt Petunia and once behind a car in Magnolia Crescent. He had never seen anything like it, he reminded him of an animal, maybe a monkey escaped from the zoo.

Whatever that was, Harry had decided he would find out. He'd been looking around for an hour, the streets getting emptier and emptier as the sky started rumbling, large clouds obscuring the sun.

As the first drops of rain began to fall, Harry had reached a playground. Some parents were calling out loudly to their children, urging them to leave and quickly so as not to get caught in the impending downpour. As they walked past Harry, they looked at him like a stray dog, but Harry didn't care.

The lens of his glasses were catching the rain making it difficult for him to see. He worried he could not sight the creature...

He took off his glasses and dried them on his worn-out shirt, making them even dirtier than before. The moment he put them back on his nose, the strange creature was right in front of him.

He only had the time to gasp before the creature (which looked far too intelligent to be an animal) lunged at him.

  
***

Harry was flying through a hurricane, colors billowing around him, a force compressing his body, seemingly trying to shrink it to the size of a coin. He was spinning around, twisting in all directions. The creature's bony fingers around his wrist, a death grip.

After what seemed like an eternity, he crashed against a hard surface. His breath left his lungs, his heartbeat pulsed in his ears.  
  
The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was a pair of boots... or rather: one boot and, beside it, a curved and lustrous piece of metal. He looked up: above him, sitting on a tall chair, was the scariest man he'd ever seen.

A constellation of scars, much deeper and uglier than Harry's lightning bolt, covered his face. His left eye and left cheek were hidden by a long, dark, metallic patch. His mouth was distorted and butchered. One brown eye was staring down at Harry with a blood-chilling intensity.

Through the panic and confusion, Harry thought of one of those villains from the shows Dudley loved to watch on TV. The evil pirate who'd come to plunder... Except, this man looked far more menacing than anything he'd ever seen on TV.

He scrambled to his feet. His mind reeling.

"Easy, child, I won't hurt you," said the man and he sounded younger than he looked.

Harry forced his lips to work.

"Who... who are you?" his voice sounded so awfully frail. "Where am I?"

The man didn't answer. His steely gaze steady on Harry. He moved his arm to his side and Harry noticed black fingers on his right hand, made of the same metallic substance of his leg and mask. He grabbed something long and thin, for a moment Harry thought of a snake, but the man placed his lips on the object's extremity and inhaled deeply.

"My, my, you truly are the spitting image of your father." Blue smoke curled from the sides of his jaw. "Up close the resemblance is even more ridiculous."

The man leant forward in his chair. Harry took a step back. His eyes darted around the room looking for an escape route. He found none.

"Where am I?" he repeated. "What do you want from me?"

The man took a ponderous drag and blew a cloud of smoke towards him. For a few seconds, all Harry could see was blue.

"You're far away from Little Whinging, Harry. Very far away. And... you're not going back"

Harry felt a cold shiver down his spine.

"But don't fret," continued the stranger "as I said, I have no intention of hurting you... quite the contrary: I am someone who's going to help you"

The reassurance did little to calm Harry's nerves. There was a violent vibe rolling off the man. Harry could feel it in the air, as apparent and vivid as the smoke surrounding him. This man was dangerous.

"How do you know my name?" he asked.

A smile stretched the man's ragged lips.

"Everybody knows your name"

Harry didn't know how to react to such an absurd statement.

The man gestured with his black fingers something behind Harry.

"Look, why don't you sit, hm?" he said. Harry half turned and sighted a chair. He didn't move. "We have a lot to talk about, though I'll make it brief. I guess we should start with the basics. So... magic"

Harry almost shivered. He'd learned the word "magic" was the most nefarious thing one could say. Worst than all the bad words grown-ups used sometimes.

"What do you know about magic, Harry?" asked the man.

"Magic isn't real" he whispered immediately, a knee-jerk reaction.

The man chuckled, but there was a darkness behind it, like an infinite bitterness.

"That's what those muggles taught you" he uttered, spitefully. Harry wondered what a muggle was. "Tell me how did my House-elf bring you here, from England to Portugal in a handful of minutes, if magic isn't real?"

For the first time, the man's eye left Harry's face. It stopped on something beyond his shoulder. Harry followed his gaze, noticing how big and wealthy the room was. Then, he saw something standing in the corner: the strange creature from the playground. The one who brought him here.

"House-elf?" he repeated in a whisper, his eyes locked on the pointy ears.

When he turned his head, the man was gone. In his place stood a huge, one-eyed lion.

He gasped as his knees buckled.

The beast raised his head and let out a low guttural sound that filled the room. Harry's hair stood on end. He was about to run for his life when, under his shocked eyes, the lion shifted and shrunk until he transformed back into the stranger.

Harry didn't know how his face looked like, but the man must have found it very amusing for he threw his head back and roared with laughter. The rumble of it resonated through Harry's bones. How could his laughter be so _loud_? He fought the urge to cover his ears.

"I hope this removed all doubts about magic from your mind" the man chuckled.

Harry was at a loss for words.

"Now, Harry" the stranger's voice was suddenly void of all humor. "Be a good child, sit down and listen. I'll tell you all about your past... which is also everyone's past"

Though he felt anchors in his limbs, Harry obeyed.

***

Harry listened as the man talked about witches and wizards, hidden away from the world's eyes. About Harry's parents, heroes and full of love for him. About a long and terrible war and a bad, powerful man who'd taken Harry's family with an evil spell. About Harry, who was very famous for he was a survivor and a miracle. And also magical, just like his parents had been, just like this man was.

The silence filled the room as Harry stared at the floor. The man's words echoed through his brain. What confused him wasn't how shocking they were but how ready he was to believe them.

"It's all true, Harry. As true as the sky" said the man after a while.

Harry thought he sounded sincere and yet...

"Why should I trust you?"

"Why shouldn't you?"

"You kidnapped me!"

The man chortled.

"Did I? Seemed more like a rescue mission to me..."

Harry gaped at him.

"Oh, Harry. I've been watching you for three months now" said the man, his hand raised to scratch his scarred cheek. "Don't tell me you want to go back to your relatives. I don't believe it for a second."

A flare of anger overtook Harry.

"That doesn't mean I want to stay here with you!"

The man froze. His eye widened.

"Oh... no" he chuckled after a while, incredulous "Of course not, god forbid! You're not staying with _me,_ I'm not a nanny. You're going to Toowoomba"

Harry blinked.

"And where's that?"

"Australia"

The man inhaled some smoke, calm.

Harry frowned. There was an important difference between Australia and Austria but he couldn't remember it right now.

"There's an association there" the man continued, "It takes care of children like you. Little witches and wizards without parents. It offers them..." he paused to think about the right words to use, "an adequate journey of magical and psycho-physical growth aimed to achieve their proper integration into wizarding society"

He smoked, satisfied.

"An orphanage" summarized Harry, deadpan.

The man coughed for a few moments.

"Now, Harry, that term is _obsolete_. I'd call it an organization which answers to the needs of children without a family"

No matter how the man phrased it, that sounded like an orphanage to Harry. He felt a cold sensation in his belly. The Dursely had always threatened him to drop him off at an orphanage. They talked about it as the most horrible place on Earth and maybe it was. But Harry had wondered many times, as he did now, if it would really be so bad... Would it be so terrible to live with children who were just like him? To be, for once, not an anomaly but the norm? Those children shared his same loss, maybe they would understand him. And the man said they had magic, like Harry. What if, for once in his life, he would feel like he belonged?

The man noticed his musing.

"I've been there for three months, Harry, don't ask why, I won't say. I know your caretakers will be good and honest people." His gaze turned darker. "And I _promise_ they'll treat you well"

He said that as if he would personally gauge out the eyes of those who wouldn't be nice to Harry.

"What do you care about how I'm treated?" Harry asked, confused.

It took the man long moments to answer.

"I have plenty of reasons for wanting you to become a good, law-abiding wizard. No anger management issues once you're all grown-up. No megalomania, no delusions of grandeur. Only positive feelings, good intentions, humble demeanor, altruistic behavior... _That's_ the Harry Potter I want to see in the future"

Harry understood half of what the man said. He wondered if he had all his marbles.

"Now, you'll stay here while I organize your relocation" the man informed him. "My elf will see to all your needs. Speaking of which..."

He raised his hand, the elf sprung into action. Harry watched, gaping, as the creature clicked his fingers, again and again, covering a big table with all kind of foods and dishes. Most of them Harry had never seen before.

"Well, eat to your heart's content," said the man, absent-mindedly.

He stood up and Harry noticed he wasn't as tall as he'd imagined.

"I have to go now. See you soon"

"Wait!" stopped him Harry, remembering something. "The Dursley!"

How would they react once they noticed Harry was gone? Would they call the police? Would they throw a party?

"Oh, don't worry about that" larked the man. "Somebody already took your place. Someone who looks and acts like you"

Harry's eyes widened.

"Nobody will notice your disappearance" continued the man.

The words stung Harry, unexpectedly. He felt a painful loneliness creep up his throat.

Nobody, indeed.

Something in the man's gaze shifted. Harry watched him as he walked towards the table, he fished an apple from a bowl and moved towards the window to eat it. The sun hit his face, highlighting all his scars. They really were horrible.

"Come on, Harry." said the man, looking outside the window and taking a bite. "There aren't many things worst than living with those revolting muggles. Life is bound to be looking up."

Despite his mistrust and fear of the man, Harry felt something warm and new blooming in his chest: hope.

"Now _eat._ "

Harry had no appetite after the roller coaster of emotions he'd been through and was still experiencing. But he sat down nonetheless: he wasn't too keen on finding out what a wizard could do if Harry disobeyed.

Thought the man had looked like he was ready to leave just moments before, he stood there and finished his apple. His eye glancing at Harry from time to time.

The food was delicious, the finest thing Harry had ever tasted. While he ate he thought of magic. Of fairy-tales in which old, mean witches fattened up poor orphaned children for the sole purpose of eating them. This man didn't even have to push him into an over to cook him, he could just turn into a lion and devour him in one bite.

Harry decided he should stop thinking like that.

When he looked up from his empty plate, the man was gone. And he was alone with the House elf.

As their eyes locked, Harry realized that, if he hadn't been so curious about this creature, he wouldn't be here now. His curiosity had always got him in trouble... now he wondered if, for the first time in his life, it didn't.


	5. No One's Son

For as long as he could remember, Harry had witness Aunt Petunia mollycoddling and spoiling Dudley every hour of the day, indulging his every whim, trying to shape the reality around him into whatever he desired.

House elves, decided Harry, were creatures who could put Aunt Petunia's pampering to shame.

Since Harry had lost everything he'd ever known, (which turned out to be pretty much _nothing_ ) he'd been spending his days inside the biggest house he'd ever seen. It was a manor, actually, lavishly furnished and surrounded by vast countryside and yellow-green hills.

The House elf was almost always with him.

Harry simply called him "Elf", since the creature had refused to tell him his name and Harry's young mind couldn't come up with something more original.

When Harry woke up in the mornings, in a bedroom definitely too huge for him, Elf would be there in a heartbeat. With a click of his fingers, he'd dressed him up with clothes as soft and light as a caress. He'd made his bed and wiped his room until it was spotlessly clean. Every day he'd washed him in a huge bathtub made of marble and gold, until his skin smelled of blossoms and citrus. Every meal he made for Harry was a banquet that could very well feed at least ten people.

Although he watched the creature's magic with eyes full of wonder and fascination, Harry felt a bit uncomfortable under Elf's ministrations. Maybe because he wasn't used to this kind of attention; maybe because he wasn't used to House elves.

On the other hand, Elf acted as if he wasn't doing anything special. His every gesture spoke of experience and habit.

Since the first day, Harry had tried to tell Elf he didn't have to do all those things. He told him he knew perfectly well how to take care of himself: he'd been doing it for years. He'd learn long ago how to change his clothes, keep himself clean and tidy up rooms. He also told him there was no need for Elf to prepare so much food. It was a waste, really. It didn't matter how much Harry loved it, he could never eat it all.

Elf had frowned at the words "wasted food" as if they were a new and mystical concept which escaped his comprehension. Then, he'd stuck his pointy nose up in the air, and stated that Master had ordered to see to all of Harry's needs and, come hell or high water, Elf would follow that order to the letter. Harry hadn't even tried to argue: if he'd learned something about Elf, it was that he adored his master almost to the point of worship.

Elf's master was, quite predictably, the one-eyed wizard.

The man hadn't sought him out since their first encounter. Though he was quite often at the manor, he was seldom indoors.  
He wandered or sit in the garden of the manor, among the oaks and cork trees. Often with papers and scrolls in hand.

Harry spied him from the windows.

The man rarely looked like his frightening, scarred self. He changed his body as easily as people changed clothes: he was often an old man, sometimes a tall woman, other times a thin boy. Harry recognized him from the way he moved: confident in his skin like a prince. Or a thief.

As the days went by, and Harry saw the wizard was keeping his promise and truly had no intention of hurting him, his fear of the man morphed into something else.

It took him days to realize it was gratitude.

It was a feeling he'd experienced very rarely in his life... though the Durselys had always expected him to be thankful for what they gave him. He guessed it made sense he would feel that way. Though rather unpleasant and downright scary, the man had still given Harry what he'd wished for since he was old enough to understand he yearned for something: a chance for a brighter future.

It was with a twinge of shame that Harry realized he hadn't even thanked him.

For days he tried to gather the courage to talk to the man... and for days, he failed. He couldn't help it: it was as if an odd, newfound shyness has slipped into his skin and refused to leave. It didn't help the fact that every time he imagined himself thanking the man, his roaring, earsplitting laughter resonated in Harry's mind.

Harry figured it was his own brain mocking him: the wizard had helped him for his personal, convoluted reasons, so Harry was being a fool for feeling grateful. Even so, he felt rude for not showing his gratitude and despised his own timidity.

One day, Harry felt comfortable enough to ask Elf if he could go visit the village he saw at the foot of the hills. Elf nodded and said Harry could go wherever he wanted, as long as he took the cats with him.

The cats were another strange thing about the one-eyed man... Maybe it was because he was a half-feline himself, but the wizard seemed to be a worse cat lady than even Mrs. Figg. Harry had lost count of all the cats he'd seen around the garden and the manor. All with a black collar around their necks. They went and come at any hour of day and night, brushing against Harry's ankles, purring into his hand. The food Elf gave them was better than what Harry had at the Dursleys'.

Though he found Elf's request strange, to say the least, Harry didn't discuss it. He went outside: four cats were snoozing in the shadows of an oak. Feeling like an utter idiot, he informed them he was going to visit the village and they should come too.

Surprisingly enough, after much stretching and yawning, the cats sat upright and looked ready to follow him to the end of the world.

Harry felt rather puzzled and a bit worried as he descended the hillside to the village, the cats in tow. He wondered if they were real cats... maybe they were humans who could turn into animals, just like the one-eyed wizard could. He really hoped that wasn't the case: his bed was pretty huge and there were always at least four or five cats sleeping on the covers or the pillows...

As he caught a glimpse of the village, his unease dissipated like a drop of water in the desert. He stared at the cluster of houses: white bricks and red tiles, glowing under the summer sun. Curiosity overtook him as he sped up, the cats hot on his heels.

Soon he was rushing through the narrow streets, his new shoes solid on the cobblestone. He ran past people and buildings until he saw a group of children, all scraped knees and sun-baked skin, kicking a ball and laughing. Harry approached them with years of rejection pressing down on his shoulders, making him uncertain and hesitant.

Maybe it was because Dudley wasn't there to punch them, but though he didn't speak their language and his clothes were a bit different, the children allowed him to play. And Harry felt happy and a bit incredulous as he ran after the ball, realizing that never in his life he'd felt his heart so light in his chest.

The one-eyed man had said that his life was bound to get better and, as the days passed, Harry was starting to believe it with more and more conviction.

***

The moon was high in the sky.

Regulus sat under a tree, in the garden of the manor, his lap full of papers. The sound of chirping crickets was filling the night and he felt strangely at peace.

Over the past days, he'd waited, with bated breath, to see if Dumbledore, or anyone else, had noticed that Potter was actually Auror Hawks under the Imperius. Now, after ten days, he felt confident enough to say that everything had gone according to plan. In four years time, when the letter from Hogwarts arrived, Potter would have already been hidden away on the other side of the Hemisphere.

It was time to move to phase two: the paperwork.

The Magical Rainbow (that was the abhorrent name of the charitable australian institution) would take a new child with open arms, of that Regulus was sure since he'd posed as a little orphan himself back when he was still looking around the world for the Basilisk poison. He thought it'd been a total waste of time since the rumors regarding a phial containing a few drops of the venom, stored among the potion's supplies, turned out to be just a myth. Now, though, thanks to his previous experience, he knew exactly what documents to forge to get inside the institution without raising any alarm.

In a month or so, he'd build a new identity for Potter. And, when that was done, he'd found a way to hide as best as possible that lighting-bolt scar. Among those mushy, upright, sanctimonious people, Regulus had almost lost his sanity, but he expected Potter to turn into some sort of Samaritan by the time he was a teenager. And if that didn't happen, if the child still grew up into a power-hungry Dark Lord, well, Regulus hoped he would do it _there_ , on the other side of the globe, and out of his hair.

All in all, everything was going smoothly and Regulus felt very pleased with himself and his own ingenuity.

He went back to his work, but soon heard something moving in the dark, a few feet away.

It was the child: bare-feet on the grass, collarbone sticking out of his pajamas. Regulus observed him: such a tiny thing he was. All skin and bones, really. Though Kreacher had been feeding him as if he was fighting global hunger itself. To think _this_ was the only being who survived a curse which could effortlessly kill giants, dragons, and all kinds of monsters... well, it boggled the mind.

Regulus had to remind himself that this child wasn't as vulnerable as he looked. Evans' magic was crackling around him, like a whip ready to strike and Regulus would do well to remember to never touch the child. Who knew what would happen if he did.

Potter hadn't noticed him, he looked up at the starry sky, moonlit hair messier than usual. Until Regulus cleared his throat and the child whirled, his startled eyes sighted him sitting under the tree.

He expected the child to turn on his heels and run back inside, to safety. Regulus couldn't blame him, really: he knew he looked like a child's nightmare even when the sun was up in the sky. Never-mind now, engulfed in the dark as he was.

The boy didn't run. Though he looked quite nervous and something else... something Regulus couldn't quite place.

"Why are you not in bed?" Regulus asked, just to say something, although, he _was_ wondering what the hell was Potter doing strolling around the garden at one in the morning.

"I can't sleep," the child replied, in a whisper. He avoided looking at him.

"Why is that?" pressed Regulus.

"I just..." the boy hesitated and frowned, as if he was asking himself the very same question. "I think I'm not used to sleeping in a room."

The statement was so absurd Regulus wondered if he'd heard that correctly.

"And may I ask where you sleep, _usually_?" he inquired, perplexed.

The child seemed confused by Regulus’ sudden change of tone, as if _he_ was the one being weird!

"The cupboard" he answered, expressionless.

Regulus blinked and waited for the child to say it was a joke, maybe he'd inherited his father's terrible sense of humor somehow, who knew.

He wasn't joking.

The child stood there, now watching him with a bit of fright for Regulus was gritting his teeth while clutching the papers in his hands, overwhelmed by a sudden urge to torture. He knew those slimy muggles were horrid cowards but he hadn't imagined they'd go that far. To treat wizard that way, how dare they!

He remembered he needed these false documents he was currently crushing in his fists. Cursing under his breath, he looked for his wand to fix them.

"I wanted to say," the child's tone was normal, if not slightly trembling, as if he hadn't just said the most shocking thing a few seconds before. "I wanted to say something... to you"

"Go ahead," replied Regulus, distracted by his own rage and the documents he still was trying to get as neat as possible. He needed these to be pristine, damn it.

"Thank you."

Regulus looked up, puzzled, and his eyes locked on the child's face: conflicting emotions were going over his features. Whatever they were, Regulus saw the exact moment the child overtook them as he squared his tiny little shoulders. Regulus' eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Thank you for taking me away from the Dursleys. I... I hated it there so, thank you," he clarified with a strange tone, both challenging and sheepish.

Oh.

Well, that was unexpected.

He didn't think the child would thank him, Regululs knew he'd scared him the first time they talked, though it hadn't being his intention. He'd expected the child to try and stay as clear of him as possible, yet here he was: showing his gratitude, all nice mannered. It was surprising the child could be so polite, considering he'd been raised by animals...

Now that he thought about it, the boy was incredibly collected and well balanced despite his age and past. Regulus had been sure he'd give him and Kreacher a whole lot of trouble, but he'd been proved wrong.

"You're quite welcome" he answered, smiling his distorted smile.

The child relaxed, visibly. He took some steps towards Regulus while still keeping a good safety distance; then he lowered himself on the grass until he was sitting on his haunches, looking like a child playing hide and seek in plain sight.

"What are you doing?" he asked Regulus, glancing at the papers on his lap.

"Eh" replied Regulus, bringing his gaze back on the documents. "Just boring paperwork"

"Why are you doing it _now_?"

Regulus guessed it was a legitimate question: it was the dead of night, after all.

"I might have some trouble sleeping as well."

Since he'd found out the Dark Lord was still alive, and who the hell knew where he hid his blasted Horcruxes. Not to mention, lately he'd been waking up with his heart in his throat, drenched in sweat, with all his scars pulsing and burning as if the Inferi had been tearing at his flesh all night... There were some nightmares Dreamless Sleep Potions couldn't quell.

"Why?" asked the child.

For someone who was acting all shy just a few moments before, Harry was becoming pretty nosy, pretty quickly.

"I can't say" he replied; the child didn't push it.

Silence followed. Regulus took a quill from his pocket and went back to his work, all too aware of the little boy's presence. For a while, the night was filled with the sound of the quill's scratching and the chirping of the crickets.

"The other day... you said I look like my father."

Regulus' quill went still. Oh no, he knew where this was going.

"Carbon copy, Harry" he confirmed, without looking up from his papers. He paused, pondering. "Though Potter didn't have green eyes, so maybe those are your mother's"

He couldn't remember Lily Potter's eyes. During the five years he and she had spent in the same room while attending the Slug Club meetings, he'd managed to never look in her direction. Regulus had a talent for that sort of thing.

"Did you know them?"

"Hm, a little," he mumbled. He hoped his reluctance would deter the child's curiosity. Quite predictably, it didn't.

"Can... can you tell me about them?"

Regulus made the mistake of looking up. And there they were: green eyes, too big on that thin face, looking at him with hunger and hope so intense to leave a hard man like Regulus speechless.

He felt a tightness in his throat and swallowed.

_Damn it._

What could he say? Because he had to answer Harry's question. To say nothing at all would be such cruelty, such a vile act and Regulus was a bad person, yes, for sure, but not unnecessarily cruel. The question was a difficult one, though: it slowed his mind and incapacitated his thoughts. It made him think about people and faces who seemed to belong to another era, a different life...

Once upon a time, James Potter had stirred such strong emotions in Regulus. All that rotten jealousy and childish possessiveness curdling in his stomach whenever he saw him with his brother. Ah, he remembered that ache all too well... It was one of the reasons he would never believe his brother had betrayed the Potters, causing their deaths. He didn't care about evidence and eyewitnesses, in a world of magic and illusions those things counted little to nothing. What he was sure about, because it was as true as the sun in the sky, was the unyielding love Sirius held for James Potter. If that affection hadn't been real, Regulus wouldn't have suffered so much because of it... Regulus was left empty-handed as Potter took what once was _his._ And Regulus had hated him for it.

Or at least, he thought he did, then Voldemort had gone and almost killed Kreacher and Regulus had discovered what _true_ hatred felt like: to wish someone to die and to act upon that wish.

Now, when he thought about James Potter, he felt a strange emptiness inside, no emotions at all. All that bundle of ugly feelings was long gone: the man had taken it to the grave with him. Or maybe, Regulus left it beneath the surface of cold water filled with Inferi.

And, even if he still harbored some hatred for Potter, he wouldn't spit that poison in front of the child. What a pointless and unnecessarily act that would be.

However, he couldn't sing the praises of a man he once hated: his own hypocrisy would choke him. Neither could he give Harry vague and empty words about his father, call him good and honest and blah blah blah, words that meant everything and nothing. Why, it would be like giving rotting food to a starving man. That didn't sit well with Regulus either.

And as for Lily Potter... well, the only time Regulus had interacted with her, he was thirteen and she was fourteen. They'd both been assigned, by a very enthusiastic Slughorn, to the same extracurricular project since they both were oh, so smart and such talented potion-makers. Regulus had seethed with indignation at being put on the same level as Evans. Then, as they worked, he'd tried to order her around as he did with Kreacher, until she lost her patience and punched him right in the nose. The gall of her shocked him more than the blow itself. From then on, it all escalated pretty quickly: wands were being drawn, potions' supplies were exploding on the shelves and House points were being deducted while detentions assigned.

Harry didn't need to know about that episode...

Not to mention, he would inevitably ask _why_ Regulus was treating his mother like a house-elf. Regulus wasn't sure he felt in the mood to open up that Pandora's box...

He'd been silent for too long: the hopeful expression on Harry's face had vanished and now there was only a sad resignation.

It was a look not fitting for one so young.

Regulus' mind worked frenetically: there must have been _something_ he could say, something true and of value, he could give about the child's family...

Ah.

The perfect idea flashed through his mind. He shuffled through his documents until he found a blank parchment. He paused to think for a moment before he started drawing lines, his hand firm and quick on the paper.

Harry was standing up. His shoulders were slumped as he took a step towards the house.

"Stay," ordered Regulus, without looking up. The child turned, confused... then, he slowly got back on his haunches, studying Regulus with a newfound curiosity.

Regulus had always been pretty good at drawing. When he was twelve, he'd painted Slytherin's symbol on the wall of his bedroom and though it was no masterpiece, it wasn't total garbage either. He used to fill entire notebooks with scratches at Hogwarts. Now that he thought about it, the last time he drew something, he still had legs and eyes on both sides.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Harry slowly getting closer and closer, until he was squatting next to him, peering over his shoulder.

"What's _that?_ " asked the child, with wide eyes.

Regulus finished tracing the last stroke. He laid down his quill, studying his work. It wasn't complete, but it was accurate and well ordered.

"Your family tree, of course, what else?"

He scratched his cheek, thoughtful.

"I can't remember further than the seventeenth century," it'd been a long, long time since he'd open the books on pureblood genealogy scattered around Grimmauld Place, "but most of your family is here."

Harry sat very still. He was frowning at the paper with an odd intensity. Regulus' brow furrowed as well before he remembered it was the middle of the night and, no matter how high the moon was, it was still rather difficult to read all the names written on the paper. Did Harry even know how to read? He had been attending a _muggle_ school...

Regulus took the wand from his pocket and lit it.

"This is you" he pointed the light at the bottom of the parchment. "Here are your mother and father, these are your grandparents, Euphemia and Flamount Potter and this is your... what's wrong?"

The child was gaping at the paper, utterly shocked. Even more than when Regulus had turned into a lion in front of him.

"I never... I never _knew_!" he stuttered.

"You never knew what?" asked Regulus, baffled.

The child stared at him, open-mouthed.

"I never knew that I... that _I_..."

Harry couldn't finish his sentence, the words were stuck in his throat. He whipped his head back to the paper as if it was the most astonishing thing he'd ever seen. Regulus was more confused than ever.

As he looked at the boy's bewilderment, a sudden realization hit him: just ten days ago, the child hadn't known anything about his past and family, all his life, he hadn't been the Boy Who Lived, nor the child of Lily and James Potter. He'd been no-one's son, an orphan with no past, no nothing. Only three hateful relatives he couldn't even call family.

What a strange, desolate situation. Regulus could barely comprehend it. For him, lineage and family had always been as solid as the ground beneath his feet: his ancestors, the noble history of his bloodline, lifting him up like a temple, defying his identity and worth. He'd given such things for granted all through his life and never imagined what it would be like not to have them. How hard it would be without a family, not even a mother or father. To be as a leaf, wandering about in the wind, not knowing what branches and tree to call his own.

It was a kind of loneliness Regulus had been lucky enough to not experience. For a moment, the possibility of such existence made his blood run cold. To think that this moment had been the child's _life_...

 _I never knew I came from somewhere,_ was what Harry had tried to say.

"You are not a weed that nobody planted, and yet exists," said Regulus, mouth working of its own accord.

Harry's gaze snapped to him.

"I mean, look at this," he gestured at the parchment in his lap. "Look how strong and deep your roots are, how remarkable and long-lasting is your lineage. You think that just because you never knew your family, it does not exist? Isn't the magic of your ancestors, passed down throughout the centuries, from generation to generation, here with you now, running in your veins? You're one page of a story that has been going on for ages, and even as the only Potter left, you were never truly alone. There are some things not even death can take from you: your family pride is one of those things."

He didn't know where the words were coming from. He could barely believe they belonged to him and yet, they were rolling off his tongue as easily as the most basic spells.

Harry stared at him, huge eyes unblinking and filled with amazement and wonder. Regulus suddenly found it very difficult to hold that gaze: the emotions behind it were too raw and unguarded. He wasn't used to them and felt strangely exposed. So, he looked back on the parchment, clearing his throat.

"As I was saying, these were your grandparents..."

Regulus recounted the stories behind the names, Potters who'd accomplished memorable feats, and Potters who'd lived a boringly ordinary life. The bad apples of the family were the accepted norm among the Blacks: dark wizards. Much to his surprise, he realized they were more than he'd remembered, at least one into every generation. While he talked and talked, Harry hung on his every word and Regulus could almost hear his mother cursing all the Potters in his ear.

At some point, he realized Harry had stopped watching at the parchment and was staring at him.

"How do you know all these things?" he murmured in amazement.

Every pureblood worth his salt knew these things.

"Past is important, Harry. It's hard to go somewhere if you don't know where you're coming from."

"I never knew."

They were the words Harry had said before, but now they carried a new meaning: _I never knew, but now I do._ And suddenly he was watching Regulus with new eyes as well as if seeing him for the first time. All Regulus could do was staring back, feeling an odd stillness in the air, which seemed to carry on forever.

Eventually, Harry's gaze returned to the parchment.

"May... may I have it?"

The way he said that... as if he was asking Regulus to hand over his one good eye. Sweet and pleading. A foreign and warm sensation was spreading in Regulus' chest, as if a ray of sunshine had found its way into the night.

"Nah!" he said, hiding the parchment behind the other papers.

Alarm bells were going off in Regulus' head, telling him he was, once again, talking without connecting his brain to his mouth.

"Forget about this piece of paper, Harry. I'll bring you the real thing," he stated.

"The real thing?" asked the child, baffled. "What do you mean?"

Regulus smirked.

"Why, the Potter Family Tapestry, of course."


	6. The Tapestry and The Portrait

For whatever reason, James Potter had sold his family mansion just before getting married. Now, what once belonged to the Potters was the propriety of the Caldwells, a family of halfbloods Regulus had never heard of until very recently.

The Caldwells were currently unconscious, petrified, gagged, and bound to their bedposts as Regulus searched around their house for the very elusive Potter Family Tapestry.

For the hundredth time, he wondered, _why_.

Why was he here, wasting his precious time looking for useless tapestries, when he should be searching for more important things, like _Horcruxes_ , for instance. And, for the hundredth time, he wondered if Harry Potter had maybe some other miraculous abilities, besides the one of rebounding back Killing Curses... like, for example, the ability to turn Regulus' brain into melted butter.

He even found himself thinking suspiciously of the child, wondering if he had somehow managed to manipulate him into doing this. But the idea was simply absurd: the child's eyes were too honest and true, there was nothing devious or deceptive about them. Besides, Regulus had been the one to bring up all that family tree business, so he could blame no one but his own big mouth.

He had no way of getting out of this situation: he felt like he'd given his word to the child, and if there was something Regulus hated with a passion was to break a promise. He felt irritated at the mere thought: it was like admitting the word of a Black meant nothing. That _his_ word meant nothing. Yes, there was that time he swore an oath to the Dark Lord (a fat oath, indeed, to eternal loyalty and servitude) and then he'd betrayed him... but the Dark Lord had betrayed him first when he tried to kill Kreacher, so Regulus had had every right to get back at him.

It took him a whole week to breach through the wards of the mansion. It was a feat easily requiring months of work, had Regulus not been such a seasoned criminal. He felt a twinge of irritation whenever that term crossed his mind: even "Death Eater" sounded better than "criminal" or "thief"... but sometimes, he felt like all he ever did, after snatching the locket from Voldemort, was stealing.

Now, everything would be _easier_ if the Potters hadn't hidden their family tapestry as if the most shameful and dirty thing to have around the house. Hypocrites, the lot of them, always moralizing away, preaching about muggles rights but Merlin forbid they married one. Sometimes he wondered if James Potter had married a mudblood just to prove everyone his family wasn't a bunch of shams.

In any case, he was sure what he was looking for was here, somewhere. Family tapestries were ancient objects, imbued with centuries of magic: it was hard to take them down from their walls, much easier was to simply cover them up, hide them from view. So Regulus had spent the last four hours tearing down the walls of the mansion, digging through the plaster and stones and muttering curses against the Potters which would delight his mother's ears immensely.

Until he finally saw a patch of red emerging from the dust. He cast aside debris with his heart beating fast in his chest. To his dismay, he soon found out it was not a tapestry he had uncovered, but a portrait.

A magnificent portrait, Regulus noticed immediately, of a man with strong features, dressed as a knight, and yet so obviously a wizard, with green eyes glimmering with magic and dark red curls falling over his shoulders. In his proud bearing and fierce gaze, he stood over Regulus like a king. And all Regulus could do was staring, transfixed... then his eyes fell on the plaque of the frame and he did a double-take as he read the name "Godric Gryffindor".

Regulus was speechless for long moments until reason forced its way into his thoughts: he knew enough of art to recognize this painting as something from the eighteenth century, way after the Founders' time... so, it was nothing but a fake. A beautiful piece of art, yes, but fake nonetheless. It was no wonder the Potters had hidden it so well.

"By thunder, what happened to your face, lad?"

Regulus nearly jumped out of his skin as the roaring voice filled the room. He looked up and saw Fake Gryffindor studying him with blatant curiosity, a strong hand stroking his beard.

"It looks like some dark creature tried to eat you," continued the painting, his jade eyes scouring Regulus' face.

It took Regulus a while to realize the portrait was talking about his scars. Usually, he never stuck his nose out of the door unless with Polyjiuce in his system. His mutilated body would inevitably make an impression on people and the last thing Regulus wanted was to attract attention.

"What was it, lad? Werewolf, Acromantula?" pressed Fake Gryffindor.

"Inferi," answered Regulus. No need to bother coming up with a lie now that the painting had seen his face: it had to disappear. "Do you know where the tapestry..."

"Inferi?" interrupted Fake Gryffindor, incredulous. He shook his head and looked at him with eyes big with disappointment. " _Inferi?_ Come now, lad, everybody knows a little fire is enough to keep some Inferi at bay! Do you not know how to cast a simple fire spell?" he squinted his eyes at Regulus."You haven't been taught at Hogwarts, have you? Why, my students would never let some brainless, half-dead creatures get the best of them, never!"

Regulus was frozen with fury.

"I have to admit, though," continued Fake Gryffindor, frowning. "Fire spells are not easy to handle, not easy at all," he raised a vigorous fist in the air. "They require _courage!_ Most people are scared of getting burnt and lose control... Needless to say, I always had a knack for them."

It was a fair amount of bile Regulus had to swallow before he was able to talk again.

"Do you know where the family tapestry is?" he asked, his voice slightly trembling. He had to remember the reason he was here and how stupid it was to get so worked up over a bloody portrait.

"The family tapestry?" Fake Gryffindor repeated.

"Yes, the Potter Family Tapestry. You must know, I bet you've been here for ages."

"Since the dawn of time, lad."

"So, where is it?"

"There," he pointed at the wall behind Regulus. "It used to be on that wall, behind that black box."

The black box was a muggle contraption called Television. Regulus sent it crashing on the floor with a flick of his wand. He hacked and dug away at the wall, through clenched teeth. His irritation still had to leave him and made the wand quiver in his fingers. If this phony painting of Gryffindor could be so detestable, he wondered how insufferable the real portrait was... and how even more intolerable the man in the flesh.

"Just so you know," said Fake Gryffindor, examining his nails. "I'm not in the habit of helping cowardly thieves."

"I'm no coward, nor a thief," snapped Regulus before he could stop himself.

Fake Gryffindor ignored him.

"But Nemesis Potter bricked me up..."

"Hurrah for Nemesis Potter," muttered Regulus, darkly.

"... only because I called her a depraved crone. I didn’t like the Potters very much after that. You can take their tapestry for all I care."

Regulus suspected the real reason the Potters had hidden the portrait so well, was that it was such an obvious forgery. It would do no good for a pureblood family to have it around the house on full display: it was like admitting they couldn't afford the real one. (If there even was a _real_ portrait of Gryffindor lying around, Regulus doubted that very much.)

Finally, he caught a glimpse of a family tree amid the rubble. His bad mood dissipated in a heartbeat as he carried on scraping at the wall with newfound enthusiasm.

"How big is this thing?" he whispered to himself, as he discovered the tapestry was so high it went through the ceiling. How was that even possible? The Potters weren't such an ancient family, were they?

Out of nowhere, Fake Gryffindor started singing. A deep and melodious song that sprung upon Regulus like a long-forgotten dream. His wand went still, all he could do was listen to that voice, mesmerized by its beauty and warmth... Regulus had never heard the Phoenix Lament before, but this is how he'd always imagined it to be: sweet, melancholic, heart-rending and, most of all, comforting. He wished it would never end.

With a big effort, he shook off the feeling.

"Could you be _quiet?_ " he barked.

Fake Gryffindor slowly fell silent, he turned his head to give Regulus a knowing and mischievous smile.

"Whatever for, lad? You seem to like my singing..."

"I need to concentrate. So keep your mouth shut."

"Ah!" made the portrait, putting a hand on his heart. "Young people today, so impudent. You are lucky I don't mind insolence that much."

Regulus bit his tongue and went back to work. It would take him ages to take down the tapestry from the wall and, unfortunately, he didn't have all this time: soon it would be morning and people would start wondering why the Caldwells were not showing up for work today.

There was no choice: he had to take the entire wall with him.

" _Vello!_ "

The spell slowly separated the wall from the rest of the house. It folded on itself like a Persian carpet and fell down with a dull thump on the grass of the courtyard, opening a hole in the house as tall as the dining table in Grimmauld Place. Through the gap, Regulus could see the night was turning into the dawn: he had to leave.

"It seems you found what you were you looking for, lad," said Fake Gryffindor, passionately. "A fine victory this was!"

"It was," conceded Regulus, smiling.

The portrait raised his arm with solemnity.

"Farewell, lad. May honour and courage always guide your wand."

"Farewell," replied Regulus, then he paused. "And just so you know, I am perfectly capable of casting a fire spell. _Incendio!"_

The portrait burst into flames before its occupant had the time to protest.

***

Regulus opened the Daily Prophet with a smile curving up his scarred cheeks. His little endeavor had made it to the front page in less than three hours and he would be lying if he said he didn't find the whole situation awfully funny: in a black and white photograph, the Cadwells were looking at the new gaping hole in their house, utterly confused. The Aurors around them didn't look much better: they all seemed to wonder why, of all the precious things the Cadwells mansion had to offer, someone would choose to steal a wall. They could only guess the answer to that mystery since Regulus had made sure to leave no witnesses behind.

He took a sip from his tea and looked up, contemplating his achievement. He hadn't notice before, while he was so busy trying to steal it, but the tapestry was a distinguished work of art: woven in vibrant gold and royal blue, with fabric branches as long as the ones of a real tree. Above the rich, colorful surface of the drapery, the faces of the Potters stood proudly. From time to time, they blinked and moved their heads, looking as if they were posing for a painter. Many of them had outrageously wild locks of hair framing their faces.

It had been a huge surprise to find out the Potters were more ancient than Regulus had ever known, their roots stretched back to the Middle Ages, just like the Blacks. And what a mind-blowing discovery had been to find out they were also related to the Peverells _._ When Regulus had read the name on the tapestry he'd barely believed his own eyes and stood there, gaping, for long moments. Now, that explained why the Potters had concealed their family tree so well: the Peverells were rumored to be descendants of _Slytherin..._ as ever-Gryffindor as they were, the Potters had surely tried to keep that distant relation as secret as possible.

Harry was walking down the stairs, frowning at his feet. As he looked up and sighted Regulus in the living room, his face lit up at once.

"Hi!" he greeted, running down the last steps.

On spotting the tapestry on the wall, he stopped dead on his tracks, struck dumb with amazement. After long moments, with visible effort, he managed to ask in a faint voice:

"Is that... my family tree?"

Regulus almost burst into a roar of laughter at the astounded expression on the child's face.

"What does it look like, dummy?" he chuckled.

Harry gaped at him before bringing his gaze back at the wall, looking utterly lost.

"Why so surprised, Harry?" asked Regulus as he folded the Daily Prophet and made it disappear under his robes. "I said I would bring it to you, didn't I?"

The child stared at Regulus as if he was some strange animal he'd never encountered before. Then he slowly moved until he was standing at the bottom of his family tree, looking even smaller with the imposing tapestry towering over him like an actual tree.

"Can I touch it?" he asked, timidly.

"It's _yours_ , Harry."

The child's face was now, if possible, even more astonished. He looked at Regulus as if waiting for him to admit he was joking.

"Who would be its rightful owner if not you?" added Regulus, slightly baffled by Harry's incredulity.

The boy turned his attention back to the tapestry and slowly brushed his fingertips on the fabric as if scared it would crumble under his touch. He froze completely as he noticed the smiling faces of his parents, right above his own. James Potter blew a strand of hair out of his eye and winked at him, while Lily Potter flashed him a bright smile.

"You were right," he murmured after several minutes, voice breaking with emotion. "My dad looks a lot like me."

He kept on tracing the faces of James and Lily Potter with something close to reverence. When he looked at Regulus again, his green eyes were moist with tears.

"Thank you," he breathed.

Regulus was taken aback, completely unprepared for what he saw in the child's gaze: a gratitude so raw and genuine. He could not remember anyone ever looking at him like that... It was as if he hadn't just given a tapestry to the child, but all the treasures and magic in the whole world. It was mystifying, to say the least.

He raised a hand to stroke Harry's tousled head, before remembering Evans' protection around the child could kill him and sharply dropped it to his side. Harry followed the gesture with his eyes but did not comment on it.

"This is the best gift I've ever received," he confessed.

Regulus had no difficulty believing that, considering where Harry had been living just a few weeks before.

"Well, it's not really a _gift_ , since it already belonged to you," he shrugged, as if an entire week spent trying to break through the wards of the Cadwells' mansion, with barely any sleep at all, had been a breeze.

Harry smiled, his eyes shining at Regulus.

"It's so beautiful," he said.

"It is," confirmed Regulus. He had to grudgingly admit that it was easily more sophisticated and impressive than the Black Family Tapestry. His ancestors had opted for a more austere and unembellished style for the depiction of their family tree.

"Hey, mom's parents aren't here!" Harry said, his gaze scouring all the tapestry. "Nor is Aunt Petunia. Why?"

"Eh..."

"Hey, mom's the only one without her parents and sister around her!"

Regulus cursed under his breath. For being only seven, Harry was awfully observant.

"Yes, she's the only one," he confirmed, his voice neutral, looking around the living room to avoid Harry's questioning gaze. But the boy kept on staring at him and waiting for further explanations so, eventually, he had to add:

"It's because the tapestry only records wizards and witches... your mother is the only Potter with muggle relatives."

His flat tone seemed to alarm Harry.

"Is it a _bad_ thing?" he murmured, worried.

"No," snapped back Regulus, just to frown furiously at his own reply. Since when having muggles are relatives was not a bad thing? It was a _dreadful_ thing for sure. He realized that, once again, Harry had snatched the words out of his mouth without his consent.

"Good," smiled Harry, he visibly relaxed as he followed the red threads of his mother's hair with his index finger.

Regulus decided he had to leave. The last time his mouth started working of its own accord he ended up making promises which required a lot of energy and time he really ought to spend on more important matters.

He hastily said his goodbyes to Harry, leaving him in the care of Kreacher, and Apparated to Grimmauld Place, in what once was his father's study. He sat in his chair, eyeing the papers scattered around the desk. Finally, after an entire week of delay, he could go back to the task of building a new identity for Harry, so when the child set foot in Australia, as he joined the Magical Rainbow Institution, none of his new caretakers would suspect him to be the Boy Who Lived.

He sat in the office all day, scribbling down words and erasing everything again and again as he kept on doing silly mistakes. He'd barely rested for a handful of hours the entire week, the lack of sleep was starting to take its toll on him: his mind was sluggish, his eye was burning and unfocused, and under the table, his amputated leg was painfully pulsing, begging Regulus to take off the fake limb and lie down.

When the night came and he saw how little he'd managed to do, he gave up. Letting the quill fall from his hand, he pressed his palm against his eye, feeling like he could fall asleep right there. But he couldn't yet, he had to go back to Alentejo and tell Kreacher to come here and watch over Walburga. His mother had been quiet all day, which meant she would be a screaming nightmare all night long. Kreacher had always been much better at calming her than he ever was. So today Regulus would be the one to spend the night at the manor with Harry. He was not leaving the boy all alone, even if there were always the kneazles watching over him. They all had a collar around their necks which would inform Regulus immediately if something dangerous was near the child, and within the collars was a mechanism able to conjure up defense shields if that happened. But even so, Regulus wouldn't leave the child without him or Kreacher supervising. After all the efforts he went through to steal the child he wouldn't let anyone steal him back.

So around midnight, he Apparated back at the manor and the first thing he saw was Harry: still awake, sitting on the floor, his scrawny excuses for arms clasped around his knees, his exhausted but serene gaze locked on the tapestry.

Regulus had a gut feeling the child hadn't moved from that position all day.

"Harry," he sighed and the boy startled. "You ought to sleep at night."

Harry turned and blinked at him.

"You're up."

Regulus' eyebrows rose at that impertinence.

"Well, _I_ am an adult," he replied in a curt voice, then he studied the child with his gaze. "Do you still have trouble sleeping?"

Harry seemed to think about it.

"No, it's much better now," he replied.

"Good," said Regulus. "Then you have no excuse, off you go, bedtime."

Harry picked himself up off the floor, legs wobbling a little. Just before he reached the staircase, he turned one more time to look at the tapestry.

Regulus snorted, amused.

"Harry, honestly, it's not going to disappear while you're not looking."

The child blushed a little, then he fumbled with the sleeves of his shirt, looking like he was gathering up the courage to ask for something.

"Do you... do you think I can take the tapestry with me to Austria?" he inquired, shyly.

Regulus stared at him in confusion.

"You mean _Australia_?" he asked and the child nodded, looking hopeful and timid.

Regulus hadn't thought about that, about the destiny of the tapestry once it was time for Harry to leave. And what the hell was he supposed to say now? The inevitable answer was _no_ , of course: what was the point of hiding the child's identity and then send him off to Australia with his bloody family tree? He might as well put a pin on the child with "Harry James Potter-The Boy Who Lived" stamped on it. But, then again, why go through all the trouble of stealing the tapestry if the child couldn't even keep it?

"It's okay if I can't," said hastily Harry. "I don't want to bother you."

"It's no bother," replied Regulus just to bit his tongue really hard. There he goes again, speaking without thinking. "Look," he sighed. "I'm not promising anything, but I think I can find a way to make the tapestry... travel size."

And to make it invisible to anyone besides Harry.

Which was incredibly hard magic and it was giving him a headache just thinking about it.

"Thank you," Harry said, heartily, and once again, he was giving Regulus that strange look, as if he was some peculiar creature the likes of which he'd never seen before. Regulus still didn't know what to think of that and suddenly everything seemed a bit too much: he sat down heavily on the nearest chair and ran a hand across his face, feeling all the exhaustion of the week coming back with the strength of a massive wave.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked, sounding worried.

"I'm fine... just need some rest," Regulus mumbled, rubbing his eye with his knuckles. "And speaking of which, why are you still here? I thought I told you to go to bed."

"I'm going!" Harry exclaimed as he raced up the stairs. He was halfway through them when he stopped.

"What now?" asked Regulus, with apprehension.

"Thank you."

"You already said that."

"And good night."

"Good night."

Harry continued up the steps but soon halted _again_.

"You _are_ going to sleep, aren't you?" he asked as he whirled around to give Regulus a questioning look. "You are not staying up to work, right? Because you look very tired, you should go to bed as well."

Regulus could barely believe a seven-year old just had the audacity of telling him what to do.

"I'm going to bed the moment you finally disappear!" he growled, glaring daggers at Harry... who didn't even flinch (and there was something to be admired in that, Regulus knew) and smiled one last time before running to his bedroom.


	7. Cherries and Curses

It was the hottest hour of the afternoon and Harry was trudging up the hillside to the manor. A thin stream of blood was running from his knee to his calf but he paid no attention to it. It was just a little accident: he fell to the ground while playing ball with the other children down at the village.

Truth to be told, Harry hadn't even wanted to leave the house that day. Since the man with one eye had given him the tapestry, he'd been barely able to take his eyes off it: for a while, his days had been spent indoors, watching the smiling faces of his parents and relatives, memorizing all the names and relations woven into the beautiful fabric. He sat on the floor for hours, contemplating it. There, at the bottom of the tapestry, for the first time in his life, he'd found a place where he could fit.

But the one-eyed man one day had walked down the stairs with a dark face. He'd planted himself between Harry and the tapestry saying that enough was enough: Harry couldn't spend all his days staring at the wall. So he shooed him out of the house, told him to go the village or something.

That was how Harry had found himself spending the summer afternoons kicking a soiled, tattered ball, playing with the local children, whose language was becoming more and more comprehensible as the days went by. And even if today he'd fallen on concrete and scraped his knee, he still had a great time. They'd carried on playing until the mid-afternoon sun had become hot enough to crack the stones and everyone had run back to their houses.

Harry had wiped the blood off his knee, with an absent mind, as he headed back to the manor, thinking about the one-eyed man and scowling.

It was unfair, really. The wizard knew so much about Harry and his family while he didn't even know the man's name! And he was sure that asking would be useless since the wizard would refuse to tell him, just like Elf had refused before him.

Harry vented his frustration by kicking the stones on the path, the cats -which always followed him around like a shadow- meowed in disapproval. It wasn't just that he wanted to know the man's name: he also wished he could give something to him, something to repay him for the tapestry…

It didn't matter what the wizard said, according to Harry the tapestry was a gift. And the most wonderful one. Harry wouldn't change it for all of Dudley's toys, nor all the toys in the world. To think that just a few months ago he hadn't even known how his mom and dad looked like... now he knew the faces of _all_ his relatives, even the ones of those who had lived so long before him, _centuries_ ago. It was incredible and a bit overwhelming.

But, apart from his gratitude, Harry had nothing he could give. He _owned_ nothing, not even the clothes on his body belonged to him, they too were a gift from the one-eyed wizard.

Besides, what could he possibly give to a man who was rich enough to own a manor and had _magic_ at his disposal? He kept on walking in a sour mood, sure now more than ever that he will never own something the wizard would consider of value.

He had just reached the garden of the manor when the man in question came out from the front door, long smoking pipe in hand, wrapped in his usual black mantle, even under the blazing sun.

He narrowed his eye at him.

"What happened?" he inquired as Harry got closer.

Harry followed the man's gaze; it was fixed on his scraped knee, the vibrant red was glimmering under the sun, making the wound seem much worse than what it was.

"It's nothing," he hurried to say as he studied the crooked line of blood with mild interest. "I fell on the ground while playing football."

He had seen worse, for sure.

The man blew a puff of smoke in the air, then took his wand from his pocket and waved it, making the cut disappear in an instant. Harry blinked at his now pristine knee, slightly baffled. He'd been here for weeks and magic was ordinary practice at the manor, but it still amazed him to see how much one could accomplish with it. When he looked up from his leg, he saw the wizard giving the cats who'd followed Harry to the village the evil eye, as if they had done something truly offending. They ran away in a haste, reaching the shadow of a distant tree.

"Football?" the man said, after a while. "How boring."

"It's not boring!" protested Harry, almost offended but also slightly worried at the thought that the wizard would found _him_ boring. "It's fun!"

The man let out a snort.

"That's because you never tried some real sport, like Quidditch," he replied, with his everlasting air of superiority which Harry would have found annoying if not for the fact that he really liked the one-eyed man now.

"What's Quidditch?"

"What's Quidditch, he asks," sighed the man in mock exasperation. Then he looked thoughtful, before waving his wand again. From somewhere inside the manor, an old looking broom flew straight into his waiting hand.

"This is a Silver Arrow, fourteenth model" he began, rolling the broomstick in his palms and watching it with a strange fondness."Pretty old now, but still a great broom. The best one, back in the days. Good balance, great acceleration, perfect handle. Here, take it."

He gave it to Harry, who looked at it with perplexity.

"Do you want me to sweep the floor?" he asked, not minding the idea, actually, for the first time in his life he would do it gladly: at least he would be able to do something for the man.

"Sweep the floor?" the man looked simply incredulous and as if that was the last thing one should do with a broom. He also seemed slightly offended, as if Harry had just said something disrespectful. "Of course not! This is a broom, it’s used to fly."

"Fly?"

The man sighed. Then he pondered in silence for a while.

"Follow me," he said, finally, as he headed towards a part of the garden cleared from trees and bushes.

Harry trotted behind him, curious and excited.

***

The boy flew like a dream.

Regulus watched him, shading his eye with his hand in the strong sun that was shining. Harry shot into the sky, lighting-quick, reaching ten, twenty, thirty feet before he plummeted down without a moment of hesitation, as nimble and fast as a hawk chasing a prey.

The first time he'd done that Regulus had almost had a heart attack: he'd quickly shot a spell to the ground to make it soft as a pillow as he expected Harry to crash in the most spectacular way. But it had been unnecessary: just a few inches from the ground, Harry had pulled himself up, with all the confidence and skill of a professional player. He'd hurtled through the air, his toes barely grazing the blades of grass.

Regulus had to stop himself from gaping.

If he hadn't known for a fact that Harry had been living with muggles since a few weeks ago, he'd have never believed this was his first time on a broom.

Harry dived again, he laughed and whirled around Regulus for a couple of times, before rolling midair in a back-flip. It was a move that had taken Regulus _months_ to learn... the child was doing it as if he'd never done anything else all his life long.

There was a big cherry tree in the garden.

Regulus walked towards it with an idea forming in his head. He plucked some cherries from the nearest branch.

"Hey!" he shouted at Harry who was now hovering twenty feet from the ground. As the child turned to look, Regulus tossed a cherry in his direction.

Harry shot to his left and caught it, swiftly. He looked at it for a second before throwing it into his mouth and eating it with gusto. Just when he was spitting out the pit, Regulus threw another one... then another one, and another one....

It was truly impressive. The cherries were smaller and darker than a Snitch, so way harder to see and catch, and yet Harry didn't let a single one fall to the ground.

Not a single one.

James Potter had been a phenomenal player- much to Regulus' displeasure- but not even him could have been as good as Harry was at only seven.

Regulus didn't know for how long they kept on going like this, with him throwing the cherries and Harry eating them as he caught them one by one.

There was a bright feeling in his chest as he watched Harry fly on what once was his broom, laughing so much you could tell he was enjoying every second of it. Old images were resurfacing in his mind, memories he thought lost forever, old Quidditch matches he won, hours of practice under the rain and sun, all the adrenaline that came with a game. Regulus had taken Quidditch very seriously, as if crashing the enemy was a matter of life and death, and he knew that once he left school behind, the world outside would be exactly like that: there was a war going on, and losing was not an option. The thought had never soured Regulus' fun anyway. Flying had been moments of absolute joy. Moments he’d thought did not exist in him anymore.

It was only when the sun started sinking below the hills that Regulus realized he'd been spending _hours_ throwing cherries at Harry, hours spent _fooling around_. He cursed himself, wondering when exactly had Harry become so damn distracting and why had Regulus let that happen anyway.

Finally, the boy landed on the grass, jumping off the broom as light as a cat. He stood in front of Reg, a bright smile splitting his face.

"That-was- _amazing_!"

"It certainly was," confirmed Regulus, smiling despite himself. "You are a natural talent."

Harry's cheeks -already pink because of the wind and exertion- became red as a red pepper.

"It's so easy!" he said as if to justify himself and his skill.

"It's really not," rebutted Reg, raising an eyebrow. "Though you make it look like it is."

Harry laughed and jumped on the spot as if he couldn't stand to keep his feet on the ground. Regulus stared, mildly surprised, Harry had never looked more like a child as he did in that moment: all carefree and spontenuous. Since he came to the manor he'd always been extremely self-controlled and cautious.

"You were right, this is way better than football!" he admitted, still laughing.

"Of course I'm right," he kept on studying Harry. "You'd be a hell of a Seeker."

"What's a Seeker?" asked Harry.

Regulus huffed.

"I have to take you to a Quidditch match one day," he said, before remembering he really had no time for such trifle and why would he say that in the first place?

A loud "POP" made them both jump.

Kreacher had just appeared in the middle of the garden.

"MASTER REG-!" he shouted, before quickly clasping his mouth with his hands.

Regulus' eyes widened at his elf's slip-up. _What the hell?_

"Reg!" echoed Harry, whirling around to look at him. "Is that your name?"

"No," replied Regulus, dryly. 'Reg' was a _muggle_ name, for Salazar's sake.

But it was no use: Harry was now watching him with a huge, triumphant smile, green eyes glimmering at him as if he'd just discovered all of Regulus' secrets.

"Master..."

Regulus swung his attention back to his elf and felt himself freeze. Kreacher looked on the verge of a panic attack, frightened eyes bulging out of his face. Fear shot through Regulus. Something terrible must have happened.

***

His mother was kneeling on the floor of her bedroom, eyes rolled back into her skull, blood running in rivers from her ears and nose. She had a thick, ancient book in her hands and was chanting something intelligible under her breath.

Regulus ran to her, heart in his throat. He tried to rip the book from her hands, but it was as if fingers and pages had been stitched together.

He grabbed his wand.

" _Separo!_ " he shouted; the spell hurled the book into the air. It went crashing against the wall, pages fluttering all around.

The moment the book left his mother’s grip, she fell back against the floorboards. A horrid blackness started to cover her skin, spreading rapidly across her hands. Regulus felt his blood run cold.

_Damn it, damn it all!_

He uttered every healing spell he'd ever read and known, mind reeling, until that dreadful blackness- which had already reached his mother's elbows- ceased its course and the blood stopped pooling on the floor.

He sat back on his haunches, brows drenched with sweat, heart pounding so hard his chest almost hurt. He raised a hand to his mother's face. She was unconscious but still breathing, pale as death and with blood lines intertwining on her face like dark graffiti. White hair disheveled, streaked with blood-red.

Regulus picked her up and laid her on the bed, staggering like a drunken man in his walk. Then he quickly crossed the room and, with extreme caution, he scooped the book off the floor... finding out that, of course, it was a book of black magic, and of course it was filled with dark curses of the worst kind.

"Oh, mother, what have you done?" he mumbled, as he flipped through the worn-out pages of the tome. The more he read the more he realized how grave the situation was.

His mother had tried to meddle with incredibly complex magic and lost control, turning whatever curse she was casting against herself.

He felt as if an abyss had opened beneath his feet.

There was no solution this time, was it?

He threw the book against the wall and went back to his mother. Kreacher had followed him here and was now bathing her face with a soaked rag, trembling from head to foot like he had a fever.

"Kreacher, what the hell happened here?" he asked, keeping his fright and anger in check.

The elf started bawling.

"Oh, my poor Mistress!" he cried, desperate. "My poor, poor Mistress!"

He kept on wailing until, as quick as lightning he dropped the rag, grabbed a silver candle-holder from the bedside table, and proceeded to slam it on his head with unrestrained violence.

Regulus seized his arm.

"Stop with this nonsense, immediately!" he hissed through his teeth.

Kreacher tried to wiggle out of his grip, but without success.

"Kreacher is a bad elf!" he said amid sobs, fixing his big eyes on Regulus' face. "Mistress Walburga got hurt while Kreacher was here, Kreacher didn't pay enough attention to Mistress!"

"It's not your fault," Regulus uttered, his grip loosening a little.

"Kreacher was supposed to take care of poor Mistress Walburga! She's so terribly ill! Krecher failed at his duties!"

"I said, it's not your fault!" snapped Regulus. "You didn't put that dark book in her hands..."

But Kreacher shook his head, anguished.

"Kreacher knew she would curse her... Mistress kept on saying that she would-"

"Curse _her_?" interrupted Regulus. "What are you talking about?"

His elf didn't offer any answer. Instead, he shut his eyes and mouth and kept on shaking his head as if to say no! no! he didn't want to.

Regulus let him go and picked up the book for a second time. Something new caught his attention: a picture of a woman, half-hidden among the pages, all covered in blood. As he cleaned it with his thumb he recognized her immediately: dark hair, moon-faced, big eyes and a gentle smile that was exactly the same as Harry's.

And everything became clear.

"Mother tried to curse Euphemia Potter, didn't she?" he asked in a barely audible whisper.

Kreacher was in flood of tears, unable to confirm Regulus' suspicions. But it wasn't necessary: all the answers Regulus needed were right in front of him. His mother had been swearing to take her revenge on Mrs. Potter for more than ten years now... and lately, as her mind became more and more deteriorated, she'd been screaming it at least twice a day. Besides, " _A true Black doesn't play around when it comes to revenge"_ had been one of the first lessons Regulus had ever received from his mother. One he'd learned very well.

Except, when it came to Euphemia Potter it wasn't really about revenge: it was about jealousy and possessiveness, and the fact that Sirius had disowned Walburga way before she did, even before he started considering Mrs. Potter his mother. That infamous summer, when Sirius had decided he had enough of his family and ran away, Walburga had felt it was truly outrageous that the Potters had taken him in, instead of sending him back to his rightful parents. To her, the Potters had stolen her son and it mattered little that it was Sirius who run to them in the first place.

She’d been carrying a mad hatred in her bosom and brooding thoughts of revenge ever since.

Regulus had not taken her mother seriously whenever she screamed about making Euphemia Potter pay, the reason being Walburga’s lack of mental stability and the obvious fact there was no Euphemia Potter to take revenge on. Now he was paying the consequences.

"Is...M- Mistress g-going... t-to... re-recover?" asked Kreacher, voice and face terribly broken.

Regulus stared at his mother: she looked strangely peaceful as she laid on her bed, even if a tremor was passing all over her body. He cast some other healing spells until the quivering stopped completely.

He couldn't lie to himself, and even less to Kreacher. It was unlikely his mother was going to survive this. The curse would devour her all eventually. Even if he stared feeding her unicorn blood on a daily basis, he would only delay the inevitable.

_She's going to die. No matter what I do._

The thought stuck in his heart like a nail.

"She has three weeks to live... at best," he uttered, trying to swallow in a dry throat.

Kreacher was overcome by a burst of weeping.

"Listen," said Regulus as he kept him in place, hands firm on his shoulders, seeing that Kreacher was reaching for the candle-holder once again, "an elf is a master's responsibility, not the other way around. You're not to be blamed for what happened."

Kreacher had no fault: he'd been bending over backward to take care of both Walburga and Harry. Regulus had asked so much of him and his elf had done everything without complaint. No, if there was someone to be blamed, that would be Regulus....

He felt his guts twist with guilt as he realized how true that was.

Since he stole Harry, he'd barely paid any attention to his mother... The fact he spent the whole afternoon playing with him, like he was a bloody child himself, was proof of that. His mother went from being his first priority to some vague worry in the back of his mind.

And this was the result.

In his defense, he could only say that he had not expected Walburga to do something so extreme. Or rather, it didn't make much sense to him she would wait so long to take her revenge. After all, Euphemia Potter had been dead for almost eight years now. If Walburga had truly wished to curse her, why not act sooner, when her enemy was still alive?

_Unless, she did try this before._

The thought crackled through him like a lightning.

_Bloody hell, what if she tried this before?_

No, Euphemia and her husband had died of Dragon Pox. That was a fact... But what if it had been _Walburga_ to curse them with the sickness?

_Had mother thrown black magic at them? Made them ill?_

The possibility had never occurred to him, but the more he pondered on it, the more it slithered into him like ice down his collar. It was convincing, almost logical.

Except, he doubted Walburga had the power to pull something like this off. She would have died, if she tried. These type of curses were extremely dangerous and complex, the proof was lying on a bed right in front of him, still covered in blood.

And yet, he remembered her lessons: a true Black would crawl his way out of the tomb for revenge. A true Black would do _anything_.

_She could have done this._

_What if she succeeded the first time around?_

He sat on the bed at his mother’s side. Kreacher was still crying, still blaming himself-Regulus guessed- despite what he told him. An odor of rotten apples hung over everything. That was how curses smelt sometimes: sticky, decaying. It was a smell that reminded him of the war more than anything, more than blood.

 _She_ _probably cursed them._

He decided, right then and there, to never look into the matter. What was the point, anyway? The Potters were dead and Walburga had sealed her faith, doomed herself. It would change nothing but only prove Regulus his mother was capable of murder. Which was something he’d known his whole life.

Well, there was another thing… he definitely didn't want to find out whether it was his mother's fault if Harry had no magical relatives left alive.


End file.
